


Varric Tethras Presents: Trey and Gruntle Save The World (A Love Story)

by AuditoryCheesecake, uniqueinalltheworld



Series: Team AU's Adoribull Advents [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull Advent Fic........ FIVE, Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Librarian Bull, M/M, Rating has changed, Romance Writer Dorian, Romantic Ass Eating, Trans Iron Bull, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 27,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld
Summary: Bull knows the Denerim Library inside and out. He knows the best way to read a picture book to fifteen six-year-olds, he knows which cookbook a patron's mother-in-law is looking for even if neither of them know who wrote it, and he knows exactly how many Varric Tethras novels they have on the shelves. He even knows which ones Varric Tethras didn't write. But there's one visitor he just can't figure out.Meanwhile, Trey is nervous about starting second grade, Dorian is considering a risky career move, and Gruntle the pug is facing his greatest matchmaking challenge yet.
Relationships: Bastien de Ghislain/Vivienne, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Series: Team AU's Adoribull Advents [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560526
Comments: 222
Kudos: 163
Collections: Actually Adoribull Fic





	1. Finding Love Isn’t Hard When You’ve Got A Library Card

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Team AU's FIFTH Adoribull Advent fic! 1 chapter (almost) every day in December!

As the last toddler carried her picture book proudly to the front desk, Bull let out a breath. 

It was his first story hour since he got back from visiting his Tama for her birthday. He’d missed two whole Wednesdays. He’d been nervous, which he wasn’t normally, but he chalked that up to the break. He’d been working in libraries for decades now, and at this branch of the Denerim Area Library for eight years, and he’d only taken two vacations that were longer than that.

So, he’d stacked the three books he’d planned to read on his seat in the story corner, and he and Cassandra had set up the craft room with military precision: At least four stencils within reach of a kid sitting in each little chair. Safety scissors in their box in the middle, and three tubs of colored pencils and crayons evenly spaced throughout. 

Although, the kids would probably be happy just using the crayons on the paper without him explaining the instructions, but Bull expected it of himself. This was _dragon week_.

By this point, he had story hour down to a science: circle up the kids to share names and sing some songs. Engage the grownups who came along in the songs. Read a book or two. Play a simple movement game if they were getting squirmy-- and re-engage the grownups. Circle back to the story that tied into the craft, and then let them loose in the craft room with Cassandra while he tidied up the story corner, and either shoo the grownups in the craft area too or give them book recommendations if they really weren’t feeling it. 

Sometimes Bull wished there was a way to be a childrens’ librarian without interacting with childrens’ guardians.

Not that they were all bad, of course. He liked Josie just fine (but not as much as her kid), and he got along pretty well with Donnic and Aveline (but not as well as with their kids) and he was glad that Krem had talked Felix into getting a library card so he came outside of Bull’s story hour (but not as glad as he was to see Felix’s kid.) People he’d otherwise be perfectly happy to get a drink with became “the parent who leaves Story Hour to have loud phone conversations in the Library lobby right before an activity that requires parent involvement” and then Bull just wasn’t as interested.

After running Story Hours so long that some of his earliest kids had their own children to bring to the library, Bull felt that he was allowed to make some judgements. 

For instance, he knew exactly whose parent had left the snotty tissue on the floor for him to step on, because he’d politely pointed out the trash cans to them the week before. 

All Cassandra would say was “unfortunate,” and offer him a squirt of the hand sanitizer she kept on her keyring. Bull really should get one of those.

When Bull passed through the adult section on his way to the staff kitchen for a cup of coffee, Vivienne was at the front desk with one of the volunteers. Her laptop was open and she was tapping deliberately away with every indication of full investment in her… Bull checked her screen… copy of last year’s mailing list.

He noticed she was positioned to see clearly through some of the stacks to the poetry. “He’s back,” she said to Bull as he stopped to straighten a pile of flyers.

“They’re being quiet,” he told her.

“It’s not about how _quiet_ they are, it’s about the clearly posted signs expressly forbidding pets in the Library.”

Bull glanced back over at the handsome widower slowly perusing their contemporary poets selection, his elderly pug ambling at top speed along the shelves behind him. The pug paused to sniff at a copy of _What the Spirits Told Me: Faded Reflections Pt. III_ , sneezed, and kept ambling. 

“Maybe just this once we could bend the rules? He’s got discerning taste, at least.” 

“That's what I’m concerned about. We don’t have the funds to replace all those university press hardcovers if his _creature_ starts eating them.” The widower was now paging slowly through a new book of Orlesian love poems in translation. He seemed highly absorbed, pulling up one of their least questionable plush chairs. The pug ceased ambling and laid itself with a soft huff of effort across the widower’s feet. 

“This cannot continue,” Vivienne announced, her fingers crisply punctuating the nonsense she was typing into an email text box with a pair of ampersands, “I must go speak to him.” 

Bull sighed. “You’re the boss. But be nice to him. It’s not like the dog is doing anything.” 

“That’s hardly a dog,” Vivienne sniffed. “It’s a series of wrinkles with chronic bronchial problems.” 

Bull held up his hands in defeat, then went to the adult nonfiction hardcovers to find the most boring dust jacket possible; he had a new Damien Palmer book to read and it wouldn't do to have the kids get too interested in his personal reading material. There were also a few library patrons around who got very offended if they saw the staff reading anything besides the fanciest literature.

“He is back,” Cassandra announced when Bull had finally circled back to the children’s section after a leisurely lunch break during which he had entirely forgotten to eat.

“Who? Pug guy? Viv is already talking to him.” 

“No. The harried man.” 

“Who?” Bull repeated.

“Him.” Cassandra pointed to the community bulletin board with the corner of a Spot book. “He has been coming in every other day for the past two weeks to staple up posters.” 

Bull glanced up, and he really wished his first thought had been anything besides _he’s not harried, he’s hot_.

Cassandra lifted a single eyebrow in an expression of disdain and resignation. “You can’t be serious,” she told him.

“Listen,” Bull began, “It’s not my fault that I’m...” He trailed off, distracted.

“Horny? Tragically alone?” 

“Not all of us can meet our one true love in college and then live in domestic bliss with three cats and invitations to all the nice parties,” Bull told her.

“You know I hate parties.” Cassandra blushed.

“Yeah, yeah, your life sucks.” Bull pushed himself back out of his stool to go talk to Hot Harried Guy, who was currently assaulting library property.

“Stapler jam?” Bull asked calmly, watching the guy slam the unhinged stapler repeatedly into a poster advertising “Lessons in Traditional Avaar Felting” to no effect.

“It’s just. Not. Coming. Out.” HHG growled. 

“Let me see?” 

Harried Guy handed over the stapler, looking a bit sheepish. Bull opened it up. “Ah, sure enough. I found your problem right here.”

“I broke it didn’t I? I’m so sorry let me just--” 

“Relax big guy, it’s out of staples. That’s all.” Bull pulled a few spares out of his fanny pack, and HHG rose in his estimation as he looked on with only mild amusement.

“So do you always carry office supplies to rescue handsome library patrons, or should I count myself special?” 

Bull smiled, his fingers brushing the other man’s as he handed back the stapler. “First rule of Qun Scouts: always be prepared. I’ve got snacks, band-aids, and extra blue crayons in here too, but those are for the kids who really need them.” 

The man rolled his eyes extravagantly, but then paused. “Wait, do you do the story times? My nibling--well, sort of a nibling, my friend’s child who calls me uncle-- loves them. And they might have stolen some of your blue crayons.”

“Trey? I thought they might have taken a few cornflowers with them over the past few months.”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit more widespread. Their whole room is various shades of blue. Felix has given up on keeping wax off the walls and transferred to facilitating the artistic process on exclusively the upstairs bedrooms.” 

Bull laughed. “I’m glad someone is enjoying them.” 

With staples actually installed in the stapler, HHG was able to get the poster up on the second try. He didn’t offer any explanation of what, exactly, traditional Avaar felting might entail, though Bull had a suspicion it included goats. He also put up a flyer for a Chantry choir’s midwinter concert, and restocked the business cards of a “Local Plant Supply” shop that didn’t actually list an address.

It had the effect of completely flummoxing Bull, who generally prided himself on comprehensive and insightful first impressions. “So, uh, nice to meet you and stuff. Hope you stick around.” 

The man gave Bull a (lingering?) parting glance. “You, too.”

“Let me know if you need any more, uh, staples?” Bull offered. “I’ve got plenty more where those came from.”

“Sure,” HHG said, already walking away. Bull glumly accepted Cassandra’s supportive pat on the back and went back to circulation to read his romance novel.


	2. The Bugs and the Bees

Old habits die hard, so Dorian showed up to the meeting with two coffees: a small cinnamon latte for himself and a large soy white chocolate mocha with three extra pumps, whipped cream, and cinnamon sprinkles for Varric. He hadn’t technically been Varric’s assistant for almost five years, but he was still on the Tethras Imprint’s payroll. And Varric had bought Dorian lunch the week before. Besides, it had been so long now that Dorian was almost over the deep personal shame of reciting Varric’s monstrous drink order to another living person. 

Varric met him at his office door. “May Andraste bless you with a stallion’s vigor.”

Dorian felt his nose wrinkle.

“Too much? Sorry,” Varric said between slurps. “The new book is all about this Chantry brother who took a vow of chastity and regrets it when he meets a disgraced chevalier on the run from the Blight. I’m up to my tits in old sayings and new perversions of them.”

“I thought I already wrote that one for you,” Dorian remarked mildly. 

“The Blight is not a one-story plot hook, Mr. Palmer. The Blight is the perfect allegory for romantic anguish and the tragedy of not getting laid. And anyways, the one you did was a chanter who wouldn’t break her verbal vows and died in her Warden’s arms. They’re gonna live in this one. Well, probably. I haven’t completely filled out the outline yet.”

Dorian sat in his usual chair next to Varric’s obnoxiously large desk and took out his laptop. “I did research for that book. The Blight definitely makes you cough up blood and there are certain… fluid risks, besides. It’s a metaphor, sure, but the love would have to be chaste or else there’s quite a risk of infection.”

“Hm.” Varric levered himself up to sit on his own desk. “I’ll think about it. But _you’re_ the one who had a pitch this time, and you never bring up historical realism unless you’re stalling.”

“The presentation’s loading,” Dorian told him primly. But it was true.

“You made a whole presentation for me still? After all this time? You’re fuckin’ adorable.” 

“Well,” Dorian said-- thoughtfully, and not three times slower than he normally did-- “This is a little outside our normal wheelhouse.”

“I told you I’m never putting my name on dragon smut again. You want to write that, it’s a Damien Palmer Original.”

“Nobody _wants_ to write dragon smut, Varric, some of us just end up broke right out of college and sign ghostwriting contracts without reading them carefully.” Dorian took a deep breath. “This is something ah... This is sort of the exact opposite of dragon smut.” 

“Nug porn? You know that cover was a prank that Bartrand--”

“I will smite you, Varric.”

“Already smitten with your writing, Sparkler. What’s the pitch?” 

“What about a children’s book?” Dorian asked.

Varric choked on his coffee. 

It had taken some doing-- three separate permission slips, two phone calls to the principal, and one in person meeting-- but Mac Tir Elementary had finally permitted Dorian to pick Trey up after school every Tuesday and Friday despite not being one of their legal guardians.

He didn’t mind the security measures. Fereldan might not technically have nobility any more, but Mac Tir Elementary was attached to Mac Tir Prep, which funneled the majority of its students to the finest Circle accredited institutions around the world, and old societal habits die even harder than personal ones. Dorian was also an unknown Tevinter mage with slightly sketchy documentation whose name and description just happened to match the officially “missing” scion of a prominent Tevinter family. Leliana might have worked her personal brand of magic on his legal immigration status, but people still talked. 

Regardless, it was all worth it to see Trey come charging out of the school building towards him at the end of the day. 

Trey had inherited none of their father’s delicate constitution. They were a solid bundle of muscle, tall and broad thanks to their mother’s vashoth heritage, and every ounce of them vibrated with energy, both natural and arcane.

“Uncle Dorin!” Trey barrelled into Dorian’s arms. “Today we learned about bugs!” 

“That’s fantastic, darling.”

“Did you _know_ ,” they said as he gently herded them around the side of the car, “that bumble bees _dance_ to tell each other where the best flowers are? And that when the queen moves out of an old hive, they all go with her in a big _ball_ \--” they demonstrated with their hands, “and they don’t sting anyone when they do that? We saw a video and someone just scooped the bees up and they just went _back_ to their swarm!”

Every so often, a person is faced with a decision that could alter the course of history. These decisions are not as rare as one might think, but they are hard to notice in the moment. Dorian noticed this one. He made the deliberate and conscious choice to never introduce Trey to Sera.

Every so often, a person is faced with what appears to be a decision of great import, but in fact their actions have no impact on the world. 

Sera and Trey had already met.

On Wednesdays, Felix took Trey to the Denerim Library for their afterschool STEM program. Sera was a frequent assistant at this program, as Dagna was an excellent teacher, but sometimes she forgot that a laptop’s trackpad doesn’t work if the user is wearing vinyl gloves.

Sera and Trey were best friends, and in fact already had plans to meet Sera’s bees. Dorian, however, was blissfully unaware of this, and thus confident his choice would secure the future safety of many lives. Choice made, he redirected. “Shall I take us to the coffee shop for a honey hot chocolate, or to the library for more bee books?” 

Every once in a while, a child is forced to make what appears to be a difficult decision between two things. Children who are clever, if perhaps a bit underhanded, however, know that there is always one best option: “Both,” Trey said firmly, and marched themselves towards Dorian’s car.


	3. Speculative Fiction

There were, Bull knew, libraries smaller than his own, too small to have a dedicated children’s librarian. There were also larger libraries, where the dedicated children’s librarian was never scheduled for shifts at the circulation desk.

It was a slow day, which was fine with him. Cole was at the circ desk with him, in theory. In practice, he had been helping one older lady look up and print song lyrics for the past hour and a half. 

There were a few other patrons scattered around the room, reading quietly or using the computers. It had been ten minutes since anyone came to the circ desk for any questions that he couldn’t answer just as well while… shelf reading.

Bull liked shelf reading _some_ sections of the library. The kids section was always a nightmare, because organizing picture books by author was a losing battle and one that only Cassandra really seemed to relish. The cookbooks got out of order often but at least they had a Dewey number to sort them by before the author’s name. The shelf of new releases was popular-- and constantly in need of organizing.

The romance novels, though. Technically, it was the paperback section, to keep them safe from the burlier hardcovers, but aside from a few mystery novels and the like, it was mostly mass-produced romance novels. Most of those were Tethras books.

The Denerim Library put a lot of value on supporting local authors. Tethras was, technically, local. The guy himself probably owned four houses in three countries, but the company’s mailing address was inside the Denerim city limits, and according to Vivienne and the Board of Directors, that counted.

That would be fine with Bull, if Tethras weren’t so _fucking_ prolific. There were three Tethras books on the new book shelf, and… just so many on the shelf he often found himself staring at with something approaching despair. Tethras didn’t even have the decency to stick to romance in one historical time period, or just with rich buisnesspeople, or just mages in old Circles. They weren’t all even romantic.

But they weren’t-- and Bull had felt very vindicated by this when he discovered it-- all written by Varric Tethras himself. It had started as coauthors credited in small, unobtrusive fonts a few years back. Bit by bit, a couple names had increased in font size until there was suddenly a whole imprint: _Varric Tethras Presents!_

Of those, Bull’s favorite was, of course, Damien Palmer. He wrote mostly m/m historical stuff, but there were a few f/f Rivaini Pirate and Witch of the Wilds themed stories that Bull had read more than once. 

He took a mishelved Damien Palmer out from between their two paperback Genetivis-- an abridged commentary and an unrelated modern author-- when he noticed that even without Varric Tethras as a coauthor, Palmer had meritted a “Local Author” sticker on the spine of his book. Bull checked the others, and if it was a mistake, then it was a pretty consistent one.

“Hey Ma’am?” Bull poked his head around the shelving unit to look for Vivienne. 

“Yes, darling?” Vivienne appeared, sporting the kind of white knuckled grip on her travel mug that let Bull know someone, somewhere, was violating a library regulation right now. 

“Is Damien Palmer actually a local, or is he a local like Tethras is a local?”

Vivienne raised a disdainful eyebrow at his insinuation, but responded, “ _Both_ Varric Tethras and Damien Palmer are in fact local authors, and to answer your underlying question, no. We will not be getting rid of them to make room for more young adult tat.”

“That actually wasn't my question this time, ma’am. I was wondering if we might be able to get him in for a reading. You said the Wintermarch author backed out.”

“I suppose if you wish to devote time to it, he could read somewhere...secluded from your usual clients,” Vivienne acquiesced, eyeing the mostly nude qunari being clutched passionately by a muscular elf on the cover Bull was still holding. “Now if you’ll excuse me, this mayhem _shall not_ continue.” She made a beeline for the poetry section.

Bull ducked into the staff room before she could think better of the idea and pulled out his phone. 

The number for inquiries at the back of Damien Palmer’s book certainly _looked_ local. It rang steadily for thirty seconds before someone picked up. 

“Varric Tethras writing and publishing, this is his receptionist speaking how may I direct your call?” Said a male voice. 

“May I please speak to Damien Palmer’s publicist?” Bull asked politely.

“One moment please.” The phone then picked up a series of crackling and rustling sounds that Bull was pretty sure he recognized as someone repeatedly crackling a candy wrapper next to the mic piece. 

“Hello, this is Va--Damien Palmer’s publicist speaking,” the same voice said after a moment. 

“Yeah, hi, My name is The Iron Bull, I’m a librarian at the Denerim Public Library, and I just found out Damien Palmer is local to the area. I know he’s got a new book out, and I was wondering if he might be interested in doing a reading here.” 

“Huh, really? I mean you have read--”

“We have a private story room where he could do a reading without there being any kids to overhear it or anything.” 

“Huh,” The receptionist/publicist repeated. “I’d love to have him come and get some good press, but he writes under a pseudonym for a reason. I’ll talk to him about it. No promises though, okay?” 

“Understood,” Bull told him. “Let me give you the callback number for our events coordinator.”

“Oh, yeah, uh, callback number. For sure.” 

Bull very professionally stifled a laugh as he gave the publicist his number to write down. 

“If flattery works on him,” Bull ventured, “you can tell him that I’m a huge fan of the _Scarlet Sailors_ stories.”

The publicist chuckled. “Flattery can’t hurt, that’s for certain.”


	4. Naming Names

“Hey Viv,” Sera paused to take a swig of Crystal Racer out of one of the several open cans surrounding her library keyboard. “Thought you took care of old pug guy? Not that I’m complaining, mind, just thought you never gave up on rule thingies.”

“The fact that you still work here, dear, is evidence that I occasionally do. And for your information, I still intend to kick him out, it just so happens that yesterday there was a child stroking that...creature when I came over to have it removed.” 

Bull very carefully kept his smirk internal. Children were Vivienne’s kryptonite. 

“Bull,” Cassandra nudged him. 

“Mm?” It was a slow day, and without kids to take care of, Bull had already begun picking back up his Damien Palmer. 

“There’s a patron over there who seems to be having some difficulty finding empty space on the community notice board. I thought you might be able to assist him.” Cassandra had no poker face, but kept her voice admirably free of teasing as she pointed out Hot Harried Guy, this time stapling with Trey in tow. 

Bull waited a few seconds to avoid looking _too_ desperate, then casually strolled over to the notice board. Harried Guy was allowing Trey to carefully staple the lower corners of a yellow poster that simply read “Woodworking. Tuesday.” 

Bull cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Mister Bill!” cried Trey, throwing their surprisingly long arms around Bull’s leg. 

“It’s, uh, Bull, actually,” Bull murmured to HGG above Trey’s head. 

“I know,” Trey said cheerfully, “but I couldn’t say it at first and you said it was okay? So i just kept calling you that. Uncle Dorin says calling someone the wrong name because you love them is called a monkeyer? So I gave you a monkey.”

“Moniker, darling, and uh, Hi. I’m actually Dorian.” Harried Guy stuck out his hand. “I don’t believe we really exchanged pleasantries last time we saw each other.” 

“No, you were a little preoccupied stapling up posters for your...” Bull glanced at still more posters in Dorian’s arms, these advertising charity bouts for the roller derby team Sera and Cassandra played on and a house show for a punk band called Heartcrusher. “...what do you actually _do,_ Dorian?” 

Dorian turned a bit pink around the ears for reasons Bull couldn't fathom. “Oh, I’m a, uh, writer, actually. I just put up a lot of posters for friends in the arts community, since I come to a lot of coffee shops and places like here, anyways.”

“I’ve never read any of his things but I know he’s like, super good at it!” Trey announced proudly. 

“Thank you, darling, but you’re hardly an impartial judge.” Dorian gently ruffled his fingers through Trey’s curls. 

“Dad says so, and he _is_ a judge,” Trey countered. 

“Anything I might have read?” Bull inquired.

“Ah, probably not.” Dorian glanced at Trey, “I’m more of a technical writer, really. A lot of instruction manuals. You know, Insert Tab A into Slot B, that sort of thing.” 

Bull considered himself to be a pretty insightful guy. Dorian evading his question only made him more curious, but Bull also considered himself a polite guy (his Tama would never have stood for anything else) so he didn’t pry.

“Well, if you ever branch out into creative publications, let us know. The library’s always looking for local authors to showcase.” Encouraging community engagement was different from prying.

“Thank you,” Dorian said, looking many things-- nervous, evasive, even pensive-- but not grateful. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Trey’s face, meanwhile, mainly showed frustration at being left out of the conversation for more than fifteen seconds. “If _I_ wrote a book, Mister Bill, would you showcase _me_?”

“Of course,” Bull and Dorian answered at the same time.

“Good,” Trey said. “Because I’m going to write the best book _ever_. It’s going to be about… bees!”

“Have you met Sera?” Bull asked, blithely ignoring Dorian’s panicked hand motions over Trey’s head. 

“Yeah!” Trey told him, and Dorian’s expression took a hard right turn into “horrified” territory, though he settled into resignation fairly quickly. “Sera told me that when a wasp gets into a beehive, the bees will all _jump_ on it and then they’ll buzz so hard they _cook_ it!” They rubbed their hands together as fast they could, warming them up to demonstrate friction. “Like this!”

While Dorian gently talked Trey down from a full-on dissertation, Bull turned back to the bulletin board. There was a flyer for an event happening that afternoon in Highever, so that could probably come down-- anyone going to that was probably on the road already. If he moved the new parent’s group poster a bit over as well, there was just enough space to put up the other two posters Dorian had brought.

If he knew Trey and Dorian a little better, Bull would have offered to lift Trey up so they could staple the flyers-- and maybe he would have tried lifting them with just one hand to see if that would impress Dorian-- but he settled for getting a stepstool from the supply closet.

When he got back to the bulletin board, Trey was cooing over a small blue lump on the floor, which resolved itself into a pug wearing a sweater as Bull got closer. The pug’s owner was perusing the “Events At Denerim Library” section of the board. Bull knew Vivienne wasn’t at the circ desk, but when he glanced towards the back rooms, he could clearly see her through the partially-open door of the staff room. When she saw him looking, she frowned theatrically and crossed her arms.

“Excuse me, sir.” 

Dorian seemed to know what was coming, so he gathered Trey up with a nod to Bull. That was fine, Bull told himself, nodding back. Less collateral damage.

“Yes?” The guy with the pug was doing a very good impression of a kindly older gentleman who can do no wrong-- or at the very least, doesn’t think he can. Bull noted the tailored fit of his coat, the pug’s four little booties, and the sly glimmer in the man’s eye.

“I know you’ve been told before that pets aren’t allowed in the Library,” Bull told him.

“Oh, but Gruntle’s not bothering anyone!” 

“The rules are the rules, sir.”

“I’d leave him outside if it weren’t so cold,” the man said. 

“I understand.” Bull tried again. “But we have to make sure the Library is welcoming for everyone, even people who are allergic, or afraid of dogs.”

“Of course, of course. And if anyone asked me to take Guntle outside, I absolutely would--” Bull started to say that he was doing exactly that, so would he please-- “I would just leave him at home, but… since my wife passed, he gets so lonely.”

Fuck. This guy had gone right for Bull’s weak spot: his heartstrings. He needed backup, or he was going to fold. He glanced at the desk, and only saw Cassandra, checking in a pile of DVDs. He looked back at the staff room. Vivienne was still there, and tapping her foot.

The guy followed his gaze, and when Bull squared his shoulders for another volley, he didn’t look away from Vivienne. Interesting.

“Well Gruntle,” the man sighed after a long moment, “it is nearly four o’clock, and they shall be expecting us for coffee at the Masque du Lion.”

Gruntle snuffled, apparently in agreement, and the two headed out the front doors with no further prompting. Bull heard the door to the staff room shut firmly, and felt like he’d only won this battle on a technicality-- and one he was only just beginning to understand.


	5. Delicate Negotiations

Dorian had always found that he did his best writing in coffee shops. He preferred the utter silence and general messiness of his desk at home when he did historical research, but putting metaphorical pen to paper required a certain level of background activity. 

Of course, he always stuck to a preferred secluded corner in fear of a passerby reading his graphic descriptions of hammock bondage pirate sex, or whatever it was he was working on that week. He suspected that the longest-lived baristas knew what he was usually up to, but he was loathe to expose his laptop screen to the public.

Today, though, there was absolutely no graphically described Templar fucking on his screen. There was a blinking cursor on a mostly blank page, but that was no more embarrassing that what he saw on three other aspiring writers’ screens. He still sat in his favorite corner, of course, but he was very pleased that he didn’t _have_ to. 

The cafe filled gradually around Dorian, partly with people coming to write or study as he was, but mostly with couples. They filed in every day for romantic brunches and quick early lunches. This was fine with Dorian. The food was as good as the coffee, and that quieted all but the most obnoxious talkers.

It was also a popular spot for both first dates and breakups. Not that Dorian minded there being so many lovebirds around him all the time. He was a romance author, after all, and it made for superb people watching. Dorian needed that sort of research. For his books. 

He thought it was a bit unfair that none of the other writers, or the friendly baristas, or the men with briefcases and interesting tattoos had flirted with him in _weeks_. Maybe he just looked too serious and thoughtful? Even the nice librarian who Trey liked so much had been nothing more than professional.

Did he need to be cuter? Like the wheezing little pug lolling across a pair of shining oxfords a few tables away. That dog probably got plenty of adoring attention. It was even being hand fed pieces of a croissant by a well-dressed man. That dog was living the life.

The dog’s owner was engaged in conversation with someone Dorian could not see. She did not seem to care about his nice smile. Someone should smile like that at him.

“You must know I shall not accept bribery of any sort, Mr....”

“Call me Bastien,” the handsome, if a bit older than Dorian’s type, gentleman answered. “And this is hardly me attempting to bribe you. These are flowers from my personal gardens. I didn’t even spend money on them.” 

“ _Bastien,_ ” Dorian found the scathing voice familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “This is Ferelden, mere weeks from midwinter. You cannot expect me to believe you have peonies in bloom in your garden.”

“The gardens are in a greenhouse,” Bastien said smoothly. “Gruntle is not a young dog, you see. We prefer to stroll in the warmth when we can.”

“Hm.” Dorian was impressed by the amount of judgement Bastien’s companion could fit into a single syllable.

“They are quite lovely, if I do say so myself. I’d be happy to give you a tour when you have time.”

“I am a busy woman, _Bastien._ There are a great many things that require my attention.” 

The flowers were actually quite beautiful, a pretty peach color that Dorian knew was far less common than plain pink. They also matched the expertly folded pocket square in Bastien’s slate gray suit. If this lady didn’t want to accept Bastien’s bribes, Dorian was tempted to volunteer himself as a consolation prize.

“Then surely Gruntle’s presence in the library can’t be all that high a priority compared to your other concerns, Madame Vivienne. Perhaps this could simply be a pleasant lunch between new friends.” 

The library director’s voice clicked into mental place as Dorian continued eavesdropping, carefully typing nonsense into his empty document in order to appear otherwise absorbed. “We are not friends, Bastien, and frankly, this is not even a luncheon.” A manicured hand appeared around the edge of the armchair, gesturing at the two coffee cups between them. Besides the croissant Bastien had clearly ordered entirely for Gruntle, there was no food in sight. 

“Let me correct that, then,” Bastien rose smoothly from his chair and offered Vivienne an arm. Gruntle stood in the same motion, stubby paws inches from his master’s heel. “To lunch, dear lady?”

“This is hardly over, but for the sake of efficiency I am willing to continue it over a nicoise salad.”

“I know just the place.” 

Dorian was adult enough to admit feeling a pang of jealousy as the two left arm in arm to continue their...date? Argument? Hostage negotiation? 

While he was staring after them, he got an email from Josephine asking if he could drop by the library and put up more flyers for Denerim’s Very Awful Orchestra. Apparently, they were recruiting new flautists. His first reaction was defensiveness bordering on panic. How had she intuited his attraction to the very tall librarian? She had plenty of opportunities to go the library herself, and she’d probably go there before he did. What scheme was she plotting? Was Felix in on it?

Logically, of course, he was just leery since her last attempt at matchmaking had gone very poorly. Felix didn’t even know that Bull and Dorian had met.

Felix would know that Bull was very much Dorian’s type, though. In order to avoid any schemes ever hatching, Dorian had to keep quiet about his little crush, if he were to ever have anything approaching a normal conversation with the man.

His phone rang, the tell-tale opening notes of a terrible jazz saxophone. Dorian answered it more out of panic than actually wanting to talk to Varric.

“Sparkler, glad I caught you,” Varric said over Dorian’s anxiety attack.

“I’m not moving show nugs for you again,” Dorian said, because the last time Varric had actually called him on the phone had been the beginning of a truly outlandish week.

“That’s fine.”

“I’m serious, Varric. Last time I required multiple vaccinations.”

“No nugs involved this time, I swear, Dorian.”

“Then what is it?” 

“I just thought it might be nice if Damien Palmer did a quick local reading.” 

Dorian hung up.


	6. Snow Day

The snow started a quarter of the way through Bull’s shift, and it didn’t stop. It wasn’t the soft, fluffy snow that made the city look like a Wintersend card, or the shitty, icy snow that would let them close up and spend the rest of the day at home with a cup of cocoa; it was heavy, and wet, and Bull had no doubt there would be snowplows on the street in a few hours. A lot of the patrons cleared out at lunch time, which was normal, but the usual afternoon crowd never showed.

Bull shelved returned books until three, which was when he usually started getting ready for after-school story hour. Unlike his Saturday morning programs, these kids were generally middle school, so they had the attention span for shorter chapter books, and they were starting to feel self conscious about the silly songs and games the younger kids loved. They’d just finished up _Warden’s Way_ , an old Fereldan classic about a mabari returning home through the deep roads, last week.

He’d been planning on reading a few shorter stories about different Wintersend traditions, then segueing into the kids making cards for their friends and family members, but as the clock ticked closer to his start time and the snow started to fall more heavily, he wondered if anyone would come at all.

A few minutes past three-thirty, one kid made her way in, stomping snow off her boots in the lobby and pulling her coat off as she hurried over to the craft section. Bull didn’t recognize her as one of his regulars, so he smiled invitingly and prepared his schpiel. 

“Farris,” the girl announced herself, sticking out a hand to give Bull’s an authoritative shake. “My mother is stuck waiting for the plows on the other side of town, and after school care sucks.” 

“Nice to meet you, Farris. People have definitely come to after school story hour for worse reasons.” 

“I’ve read that one,” Farris told him, pointing at the copy of _Elf, 15, Charming but Insane_ Bull had cradled in his arm. “The sequel, too. It’s not as good.” 

Bull smiled at her. She had a point about the sequel. “Okay, then. If you’re still the only one here in...” Bull glanced at the clock. “Two minutes, I’ll let you pick out something new. Or we can just skip straight to the crafts, if you like that better.” 

“What sort of crafts?” Bull glanced back towards the coat rack, where Ferris had left both her outerwear and one of those zip-up art portfolios. 

“Holiday cards? We have some basic colored pencils and markers, but if it’s just you today I can always go back and pull out our watercolors. You certainly seem like you’d be responsible with them.”

At the mention of watercolors, Farris’s shoulders relaxed infinitesimally--just enough so that she no longer looked like a very short HR manager.

“They’re my favorite,” Bull told her. “I like painting animals.”

“Like nugs?” Farris said hopefully. “I’m getting my own nug for my birthday, mom says, just for me, if I can prove I’m ready for the responsibility.”

“That sounds awesome. But I’m better painting dogs, to be honest. It’s easier to paint fur.”

“Hm.” Farris looked over at her portfolio. “Can I pick your brain?”

Bull couldn’t quite keep from grinning. “Can you what?” 

“What?” she demanded. “My mom says that all the time! I’m not good at painting dogs! Can you show me how?” she paused. “Please?”

It was ten to four. No one else was coming in. “Sure, why not! Bring your portfolio to the table, and I’ll go get the paints.”

She scurried to do that, and had some pictures out on the table, and a pad of watercolor paper open to a fresh page, by the time he got there. “This is a picture of my dog, Fizzgig,” she told him, spinning one page around.

“I like how you painted her standing in the flowers,” Bull said.

“This is another picture of Fizzgig.” She showed him him two more. “And so is this one. Do you see my problem?”

Bull thought he did, but he didn’t want to guess wrong. “I like your backgrounds,” he said instead. “I can tell that this is a picture of her at the beach playing in the water, and this is her with a cat?”

“I can’t paint her feet,” Farris said mournfully.

“Well, you’ll only figure it out if you practice.” Bull took a piece of blank paper and wetted a brush. “Do you know how many toes a dog has? Let’s start there.”

They didn’t stay entirely on topic, mostly because Farris was twelve and Bull had only taken classes in early education, his actual degrees were all in information science. But she had an impressive attention span, and by the end of the official Story Hour, they’d filled a dozen pages with dog paws of many colors and mediums, some attached to various animals, some not.

Bull was drawing her a horse to take home when her mom showed up. It took him a minute to recognize her, with her hair in a tight bun and a conservative blue peacoat over a gray suit. But if he squinted and imagined her with a neon green helmet and a terrifying grin, it was clearly Skinner.

She didn’t seem as surprised to see him as he was to see her. He’d never seen her outside of a roller derby bout, captaining Sera and Cassandra’s team. She seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, but agreed readily enough to Farris’s pleas to come back the next week.

Bull promised to let Farris paint more if she came early, and vouched for her responsibility in regard to pet nugs. 

He lingered over cleaning up the watercolors. It had been a while since he’d painted anything, he realized. His Tama had some of his landscapes up on her walls, but he’d been too busy to paint lately. No, not too busy, just not inspired, though that was much harder to admit.

He usually didn’t call Tama until Saturday afternoons, but she’d never been annoyed at him for calling a few days early before. Maybe she’d send him some pictures of her garden in Par Vollen, and he could paint some little dogs napping under the giant peonies.


	7. Winter Sunshine

Dorian packed up his laptop and left the coffee shop, mind somehow blank and racing at the same time. He calmed down after a block and a half and called Varric back.

“It’s not that it’s the worst idea you’ve ever had,” he started. “In theory, authors should talk about their books to get people interested, and libraries should host events that people in their communities care about--”

“First off, Sparkler, you can say no. Okay? It’s not the end of the world if you say no. But--” and Dorian recognized that tone, “But it’s been ages since you did any press, even inside the industry, and _Villa in the Sun_ is a genuinely good book.”

Dorian got to his bus stop and huddled under it, stomping the snow off his boots. “I know it’s a good book, Varric. I wrote it.”

“Right!” He could hear Varric thump his desk for emphasis. “So why not read a couple of the tamer passages, sign some old books and guarantee a few preorders, and talk about how great it is to work with a genius like me?”

“I don’t even know where you get these ideas,” Dorian said plaintively. He could almost feel himself starting to capitulate. “ _You’ve_ never done a public reading of one of your novels-- and _don’t_ tell me about doing any private readings, either. I don’t want to know.”

“It wasn’t exactly my idea,” Varric said.

Dorian went over the short list of people it could have been. It wasn’t actually as short as he would have liked. “I thought I made it clear that I am no longer taking any career advice from Hawke.”

“Not Hawke,” promised Varric.

“How do you even plan to get a public library to agree to this scheme?” he continued. “You may have collected some of the best writers in the field-- myself included, of course-- but nine tenths of us write under pseudonyms for very good reason. We’re not exactly high literature, or educational or, well, _respected_.”

Varric had a particular kind of laugh that came out when he was feeling devious, and it almost always boded ill for Dorian. 

“Oh no,” he said. “The Library called _me._ ”

That was an outrageous and unrealistic claim, and Dorian told Varric that in language that made the older lady at the bus stop with him frown quite violently. Varric was unphased.

“He gave me the contact info for whoever’s in charge of planning events, and I said I’d ask Damien Palmer what he thought about a debut public appearance.” He continued to chuckle to himself like a villain in a Steam Age film. “So what do you think?”

Dorian thought about it for a few minutes. “Fine. But you have to help me find an illustrator for my other book.”

“Of course, Sparkler. I’ve got someone in mind already.”

His plans to work on his new book substantially disrupted, Dorian settled for cleaning and running errands. Perhaps, he thought as he dug through the hallway closet where he could have sworn he kept his glass cleaner, that sort of adult activity should be on his to do list more often.

The gray sky threatened ever more snow as he made his way carefully along the slushy sidewalks. Even more than the cold and the abominable fashion of the South, Dorian found the early sunsets difficult. He had found an apartment with west-facing windows as soon as he could afford one, filled it with hardy Fereldan plants and more lamps than was strictly necessary, but come winter, he still found himself outraged and exhausted by a weak sun that was gone by four-thirty.

Luckily, he was able to meet most of his needs close by: soup stock, rice, and milk from the corner store, bread from the bakery right around the corner. There was a department store a subway stop away, so if there was something truly urgent-- and not very big-- he wasn’t shit out of luck. 

But Dorian preferred to watch winter happen from inside his own home. Even Trey could only tempt him out to sled so many times a week.

There were Wintersend decorations everywhere, from brightly-colored snowflakes on lamps and street signs to sparkly window displays in store windows. It livened up the cold, wet, gray everything else in the city, but it still felt a little hollow.

Sometimes spending his working hours crafting version after version of the ideal man made him too critical of any real, flawed person to actually appreciate them. Other times it made him feel the yearning for that perfect romance all the more acutely.

If he were a character in one of his own novels, he would-- well, he would have hair that never looked bad even after taking off a winter hat. Aside from that, though, he would walk around the next corner and run right into a man who would, after some dramatic misunderstandings about what Dorian _wanted_ , turn out to be exactly what he _needed_ , and he’d never spend another cold Fereldan night alone again. Failing that, he would at least acquire a high end sun lamp in the breakup. 

Dorian turned the corner and nearly kneecapped himself on a sandwich board advertising _Hot Cider and Cool Books!_ through the door to his left. He cursed into his scarf and sidestepped it, ready to hurry on his way, but he did glance into the shop.

He recognized that silhouette; it was hard not to. And despite his own carefully constructed cynicism, he recognized the little flutter in his chest when the Iron Bull turned around and saw him, too.

The flutter got more insistent when Bull smiled and waved. Dorian went inside.

Bull’s grin seemed wider, somehow, once Dorian hand stamped the slush off his boots on the welcome mat and moved, trying not to seem too eager, over towards him. 

Bull was leafing through a picture book about a young elf girl exploring her Dalish heritage through dreams-- Dorian had read it with Trey, and they had both loved the pictures. He had been especially envious of the rhyme scheme.

“Hello,” Dorian said lamely. Bull’s brown argyle sweater clashed monstrously with the polka-dotted collar of the aqua button-up underneath, but tragically Dorian found the effect rather charming.

“Hey!” Bull opened the book to Dorian’s favorite page. “I’m looking for new books for the Library, what do you think of this one?”

“It’s very good,” Dorian agreed. “I thought libraries ordered most of their books online, though?” That was how they’d always ordered his books, at least.

“Most, sure. But I like to stay on top of what the local bookshops are doing. And they’ve got hot cider here.”

In addition to the sweater and shirt combination, Bull had a scarf patterned like classical yellow plaideweave, but with sparkly pink threads scattered throughout. It was vile, but perfectly fitting. “So the sign said.”

“It’s no cocoa, but Fereldans do what they can.”

“Any port in a storm,” Dorian agreed, and decided that a hot drink was the reason he’d come into the shop in the first place, and the Iron Bull had just happened to also be there.

That didn’t fully explain how he then found himself on one of the bookshop’s armchairs, holding a cup of steaming apple cider in his hands and his hat, scarf, and gloves on his lap. It was unbearably cozy, and Dorian was afraid this was a blow his defenses would not be able to withstand.


	8. Warm Cider, Hot Company

Bull was starting to think that Dorian might just always be a little bit harried, but he hoped that wasn’t true. So he took a chance and bought a cup of cider when Dorian marched over to the register, and asked a few questions about how Dorian’s technical writing was going.

When that got him nothing besides a couple shrugs, he switched the topic to kids’ books, which went over much better.

He had about half of his cider left when the clerk at the register waited politely for a customer to close the door behind them, and then turned to another employee and said loudly, “I wish Varric Tethras wouldn’t write quite so many books.”

Bull watched Dorian snort into his cider and immediately try to hide it.

“You don’t like Tethras books?” he asked.

“Oh, no, I like them fine,” Dorian said quickly. “I mean-- I haven’t _read_ all of them, is all. There’s quite a lot.”

“That’s true,” Bull said, glad that he hadn’t misjudged and Dorian wasn’t a closet book snob. Well, Dorian was clearly a bit of a snob about some things, but Bull could handle a personal preference about pattern matching (especially if it meant Dorian giving him a once-over like _that_ ) better than a disdain for an entire genre of story. “We’ve got a few shelves of VT and VT Presents books at the library. Most of them are technically local authors, did you know that?”

Dorian’s eyebrows rose even while he smiled. “Really?”

“I actually called their office to see if one of the authors could give a talk at the Library since he’s got a new book coming out. I haven’t heard back, though.”

“Oh.” Bull couldn’t really read Dorian’s expression. He looked like maybe his cider was too hot? “Give it… time? Maybe the author’s shy?”

“Maybe,” Bull said thoughtfully. “I really hope he agrees. Well, I assume it’s a he. Damien Palmer’s fake bio uses him pronouns, at least.”

Dorian took another large swallow of his cider and nodded encouragingly. “Probably a him, then.” 

“I actually like him the best of Tethras’s ghostwriters.”

“Oh?” Dorian’s tone was painfully noncommittal.

“Yeah, He’s got real chops, you know? Some of the Tethras protagonists feel like they’re just these groups of good traits pasted into a random historical period. Palmer’s always feel like real people, you know? They have flaws, and they fit into the setting they were written for. They wouldn’t make sense anywhere but where they are, you know?” 

Dorian leaned forward with a small smile, then cleared his throat and sat back again. “That sounds fascinating?”

“Sorry, I can get kind of...into books.” Bull was blushing.

“No, no, I can tell the stories really mean something to you. It’s nice, sometimes people get embarrassed about actually liking things. Especially books that are... genre fiction.”

“Oh, I’m not embarrassed about liking romance novels,” Bull told him. “Especially not well-written stories that also have well-written sex.”

“Bull!” Dorian looked frantically around the shop. “There could be children!”

“Nah, I keep pretty good tabs on that stuff. Children’s librarian, remember?” Bull lowered his voice a bit all the same. “But I’ll keep it down.”

Dorian seemed mollified. “Do you read a lot of other historical fiction then?”

“Oh yeah,” Bull said. “And sci-fi, and biographies, and as much fantasy as I can-- I’m a big dragon nerd.”

“You know,” Dorian said teasingly, “that makes a lot of sense.”

Bull shrugged. Dragons were cool; that was just a fact. “Did my phone case give it away?”

Dorian shook his head and smiled. “No, it was how often Trey tells me you do a dragon week at story hour. They’re always thrilled, of course, don’t worry. Are there really that many children’s books about dragons, though? Surely you’ll run out at some point.”

“Giant lizards that used to roam the world-- and still might-- carrying away a bronto like an eagle snatching a poodle, breathing fire and lightning and featuring in basically every heroic story from before the Steel Age? I don’t think people are ever going to stop writing about dragons.”

“Fair point, I suppose. Surely you’ll run out of _good_ dragon books at some point.”

That hit close to home. He’d spent a lot of hours trying to find new books that were up to his standard. “Now that is true. There’s some really good ones, but a cool subject isn’t enough to make up for bad writing. And for some reason, there’s some really badly written kids books out there. More than adult books, I think.”

“Perhaps bad writers believe that their length makes them easier to write.” 

Bull smiled. “You sound like you know better. Have you ever tried it?”

“Uh, well…” Dorian shifted uncomfortably in his deeply cushioned armchair. “Actually, can I ask you what you think makes a good children’s book? Or what you never want to see in one again? You’re a bit of an expert and I’m-- I’m trying to write a kid’s book.”

“Really?” Bull didn’t usually think of himself as an expert, but he wasn’t about to reject the title, especially when Dorian asked so prettily.

“It’s nothing, really, just... experimenting with the style.” 

Something about that didn’t quite add up, but Bull let it slide. “I like reading out loud to the kids, so it’s annoying when the author only sort of commits to a rhythm, would be one thing. Suddenly switching from iambs to trochees doesn't seem like it should be a big deal but it trips me up and kinda weirds out the kids.”

Dorian nodded, running a finger thoughtfully along his lower lip. Bull pulled his focus back.

“It’s also kinda hard to take myself seriously when the book is trying too hard to teach a lesson. Depending on the age range, a big moral on the last page can feel really clunky.” He looked at Dorian’s cider cup on the table instead of his mouth. “What’s your target audience, is probably the first question you’d need to answer.”

“Um.” Dorian flushed slightly. “Well, Trey?”

Bull aggressively stamped down on the urge to say “awwww.” It wasn’t appropriate.

Instead, he nodded and changed the subject to buy himself some time. “How’s Trey and their folks, anyways? Last time I saw Felix he was all stressed about some case.”

“Oh!” Dorian perked up. “I didn’t realize you knew them! Felix is always stressed about a case, though.”

“That’s fair.” Bull took a long sip of his cider. “So, I guess your plot is going to involve bugs somehow?”

“You know, I started out with bugs but I’ve actually recently encountered a rather inspirational pug.”


	9. A Fox in the Coffeehouse

Dorian tried writing his new book again the next day, and the day after that. It moved slowly. Varric, who wasn’t officially his editor but was always a friendly set of eyes, was absolutely no help.

Even the things Dorian had been hoping Varric could specifically do for him were off to a bad start. Connecting Dorian with an illustrator, for instance.

“I can’t tell if you’re serious.” Varric had brought up one name three times now, so he probably was, but…

“As the grave, Sparkler. Merrill can draw more than one thing.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Dorian assured him. “I just don’t think her style is exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Daisy Sabrae’s covers are the best in the business,” Varric insisted stubbornly.

Dorian put down his coffee and looked Varric in the eyes. “ _Yes_ ,” he said. “I _know_ that. But I’m not looking for a romance novel cover, I’m looking for someone who can draw a consistent dog.”

“Oh.” Varric deflated. “You saw the drafts for that one?”

“Yes, I saw the drafts for the _Mabari’s Devotion_ cover, Varric, I wrote a good chunk of it.” Point made, he picked his cinnamon latte back up.

“So she has one weakness!”

“It’s not a question of whether or not she’s a good artist,” Dorian said. “It’s whether she’s the _right_ artist.”

Varric grumbled into his drink. Dorian hadn’t bought, so he didn’t know what it was and he didn’t care to find out.

Dorian sighed. “Your loyalty is very touching, and I’m sure Merrill knows how much you care about her and like her work, but it’s just not what I need. Frankly, it’s a bit too sexy.”

“Right.” Varric played with his necklace while he thought. “What about Isabela? Or Fenris?”

“Too dreamy,” Dorian said. “And too… Well, no, you’re right. I’ll reach out to both of them.”

“Good, good.” He watched Varric check off _get Dorian an illustrator- Merrill?_ on his very formal meeting agenda and write _get Dorian an illustrator- Isabela?_ at that bottom of the list. “Next up, publicity for _Villa in the Sun._ We’ve got adspace in the next issue of _The Randy Dowager_ and the cover reveal and two-page sneak peek is slated to post on VTP.com on the fifth, to give everyone some time to recover from the annum before they get excited again.”

Varric paused. The potted plant on the windowsill beside them waited with bated breath.

Dorian steeled himself. “And I’ll do the reading at the Library.”

Varric punched the air. “Yes! I knew you would do it!” 

“I’m only reading the leadup in chapter one, though. No smut. And no...allusions.” Dorian wrinkled his nose at him. 

“Boo,” Varric said. “But okay. I’ll take whatever gets you meeting and greeting.”

“The Denerim Library usually does their own publicity for local author talks, though. I’ve seen their posters. Are we doing the same?”

Varric tapped his pen thoughtfully on his notepad. “I was thinking we’d do a little bit of a push. We don’t want anyone flying in from Antiva, or anything, but this is a big reveal! Damien Palmer, in the flesh!”

“Don’t talk about my flesh,” Dorian groused.

Varric ignored him. “At least you’re not massively secretive like Jo-- I mean Cherette Allegra. There’s no one who might recognize you who doesn’t already know what you do, right?”

“Well, there’s a few aunts in Tevinter who I sincerely hope to never cross paths with in a professional setting, but--” There was Bull. Oh no.

“Next-- did you look at the contract for the audio book?”

“Of course,” he had done no such thing, but Dorian’s mouth carried on without him.

“What did you think?”

“I thought it was... contractual.” This was not _really_ a disaster, per se. After all, Dorian really couldn’t claim Bull was a close friend, or anything more than a casual acquaintance. The sort of casual acquaintance he lied to about his career all the time. It was no different, and he’d never had anyone be upset or hurt about his deception when they learned the truth before. So what if Bull had made a point to praise him for not being a literature snob? Surely he didn’t expect _honesty_ from Dorian, did he?

“Right.” Varric sounded a little distant. “Donnic in legal vetted the language, so if you’re on board to spend sixty hours in a little black booth reading onomatopoetic fuck noises, we should be all set. Just don’t change my grammar. The Seeker talks like that for a reason.” 

“Of course,” Dorian agreed absently. He never said he _wasn’t_ secretly an author of best-selling romance novels. Bull had only asked the one time. 

Honestly, people should assume that all their casual acquaintances had fake names and double lives until proven otherwise. Who was to say the lady who sold him tamales on Thursday evenings didn’t also torment Antivan political prisoners on Sundays? Not that there were many of those, nowadays, but back in the Black Age.... Dorian reached for his moleskine to make a note of that thought, actually. 

There was a knock at the coffee shop window as Dorian finished outlining a much more consensual than historical take on possible uses for Black Age dungeon paraphernalia 

“Oh shit!” Varric said, waving back at whoever it was. “Dorian, do you know Bastien?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, though the name rang something of a bell.

“What about Gruntle?” Varric continued, scooping up a pile of wriggling pug as Dorian connected the dots.

“How are you, Varric?” asked Bastien, one of Tethras publishing’s earliest investors. His pocket square today coordinated with Gruntle’s teal patterned winter coat and boots.

“Better every minute, Bastien. Better every minute.” Gruntle, Dorian noted, settled himself on Varric’s lap as easily as he did his master’s shoes. 

“Dorian, may I present my greatest muse, the Black Fox himself, Bastien de Ghislain. Bastien, Dorian wrote that bit about the mermaid and the dragon.”

Dorian, having read five of the Black Fox books and having coauthored one, was not entirely comfortable with this revelation. “J-just as immaculate in person, I see,” he choked out after a moment of brief astonishment. 

“That was a good bit,” Bastien said, sitting just a bit closer to Varric than the sofa required. “Quite inspired. I’ve followed your ascent with interest.”

“Have you?” Varric threw a companionable, even fraternal arm around Bastien’s perfectly tailored shoulders, and Dorian found it altogether too much for him. “Well, gentlemen, I regret that I’m unable to stay any longer, but I have a reading I really must prepare for. I’ll leave you two to...catch up.” Dorian gave Gruntle a polite nod and gathered up his notes.

“So, Gruntle,” Varric said teasingly as Dorian fled, “has Bastien gotten his shit together enough to court the lady in the ivory bookshelves? Or did he abandon me for nothing but heartbreak?”

Bastien laughed. “Oh, you know how it is, Varric. You have to wait for the end of the tale to find out.”


	10. Trey Makes A Pun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note-- on earth, peonies are toxic to goats. Fortunately, the animals called goats on Thedas are a different thing entirely. Also Lord Woolsley isn't even a real fantasy goat, so he can eat all the peonies he wants.

Vivienne was in high dudgeon when Bull got in for his evening shift.

“Look at this!” She flung open the door of her office. “A disaster!”

“It’s definitely… pink.” The room, typically sleek, minimalist, and dignified, was absolutely filled with flowers. Floor to ceiling. The colors ranged from the palest blush pink to a vibrant almost-scarlet, and were piled in vases and bouquets on the desk, on the side table, the floor, two of the chairs… “Don’t you keep your door locked when you’re out? Who let the delivery guys into your office?”

Vivienne faltered. “I did,” she admitted in an embarrassed undertone. “I knew the sender. I just didn’t think there’d be so _many_.”

“I’ll take some home with me, if you want. Or maybe I can use flower petals in a craft with the kids?” The bouquet closest to him was so full that it almost formed a perfect circle. “That’s-- fuck but that’s a lot of peonies, boss.”

She sat down on the edge of her chair, which was mostly taken up by a vase of perfect, blooming peonies, and covered her face with her hands. 

Her shoulders started to shake, and for a gut-rending, blood-freezing moment, Bull thought Vivienne might be crying.

“Uh, Boss?” he edged closer to the desk. “Ma’am? Are you alright?”

She didn’t respond, so he moved the vase on the floor beside her and knelt down gingerly in its place. “Vivienne?”

She lifted her head and he saw that she was laughing. He smiled back, relieved and uncertain.

“The worst part is,” she giggled-- and Bull had never in his life seen Vivienne de Fer _giggle_ , “I find myself utterly charmed by this mayhem.”

He laughed too. “It’s the guy with the pug, isn’t it? I knew he had a thing for you!”

“That’s obvious to anyone with eyes, darling.” Vivienne plucked one peony from the bunch beside her and turned it in her fingers thoughtfully.

“So… what are you going to do?” Bull asked.

“Nothing, of course. Any acknowledgment will simply encourage further absurdity.”

“There’s an argument to be made that if this doesn’t get a reaction he’ll just escalate. Are you sure you want to wait for him to bring live peacocks in with the flowers? You could try talking to him, maybe.”

Vivienne sniffed the peony daintily. “Don’t be ridiculous. He owns a greenhouse, not a menagerie.”

“Well, if he sends a violinist to serenade you, I’ll ask them to wait outside.” Bull hauled himself to his feet. “Do you want me to leave the door open so you don’t suffocate in flowers? Or bring you a fan?”

“Just close it, please.” She pulled a business card out of her bag. “I have a personal call to make.”

The day didn’t get less strange from there.

It was an excellent sort of strange--part of the library’s leadup to Wintersend was a pajama day for the kids, which of course required a special, also pajama-clad guest. Bull was rather pleased with this year’s selection. Cassandra, less so. 

“ _Goats,_ Bull?”

“Hey, hey, baby goats. In pajamas. They’re great. The kids love them.” Bull gestured a hand towards Emmauld, a four year old storytime regular, who had, upon hugging his first pajama-clad goat, become so overcome with the emotion of the act that he had begun to weep. 

“They are standing on the craft tables.” 

“Our speaker last year stood on a rolling chair. This is much safer. And besides, I got a great deal on craft services.” Bull pulled another peony from a nearby vase and pointed it in the direction of a little black goat with soft brown eyes. 

Trey was there with their parents, Felix and Kasaanda, talking nonstop. When Bull went over to say hi, Trey excitedly introduced him to Lord Woolsley. Bull had already met Lord Woolsley, but he wasn’t about to rob Trey of the opportunity to practice valuable social skills.

Dorian was there too, and looked torn between Cassandra’s concern for the books and Bull’s own enchantment with the babies. Bull figured board books were meant to be chewed on, anyways.  
“I see the kids are out in record numbers for pajama day,” Dorian said dryly, while Trey was distracted feeding flowers to Lord Woolsley.

“Hey, was that a pun?” Bull grinned at him.

“You’ll never know, and I’ll never tell.” 

On the other side of the room, a four-legged kid got too playful and knocked over a two-legged one, who started to cry.

“Relax,” Bull said, whipping a band-aid out of his fanny pack. “I’ve goat this.”

He could hear Dorian’s pained groan behind him as he went over and tended to the fallen warrior. It wasn’t anything more serious than surprise, so a hug from mom and a magic band-aid on the arm had the little girl smiling again. Bull held her hand while she touched his horns, and then the goat’s, laughing.

When he circled back to where Dorian was kneeling by Trey, who’d found the tiniest goat in the room, Dorian pinned him with a half-amused, half-pained look. “You’ve _goat_ this?”

“Hey, I had to think on my hooves,” Bull said. 

“This is terrible,” Dorian told him, laughing. “You’re awful.”

“I think he’s goat!” Trey interjected. “No, wait-- great… groat?”

Dorian scooped them up with surprising ease. “You can’t just go butting into other people’s conversations, you rapscallion!” He tickled them until they yelled and wriggled away to hide behind Bull’s legs.

The tiny goat tottered over and reared up on its hind legs to butt Bull’s shin. He stepped out of the way and it refocused its assault on Trey, who was thrilled beyond words.

Bull got distracted by Emmauld, who’d noticed the goats’ rectangular pupils, and then by Farris, who was trying to feed one kid her shirt. When he had a chance to catch his breath, he noticed that Trey and their parents were gone. Kassanda was almost as tall as he was, so he was surprised he hadn’t seen any of them leave.

He saw Trey’s bright green coat a moment later, though, and Dorian’s hair, behind the table that Lord Woolsley had hopped back onto. With a glance out to make sure no one needed him, he headed over. He just wanted to ask one question, and then he’d go back to work as normal, as if he didn’t have a massive crush on one of the library’s patrons.

It didn’t help his case that both Trey and Dorian looked happy to see him back, or that he moved a bit too fast to offer a hand when Dorian stood up.

“Mister Bill,” Trey asked, “do you have anything besides flowers for the goats? I don’t want Lord Woolsley to _only_ eat desserts.”

“The lady wearing the apron with the goat on it has food for them.” Bull pointed her out. “Check with her.”

Dorian stroked Lord Woolsley’s chin. “You’re good at this, you know. Not everyone can handle this many kids, or just people, this well everyday. I’ve had some retail jobs, and I was not good at it. It’s hard to be friendly with everyone.”

“I think you’re perfectly friendly,” Bull said, slightly offended on Dorian’s behalf.

Dorian laughed. Butterflies erupted in Bull’s stomach with concerning intensity. “Maybe you’re just special,” he said.

Bull squared his shoulders. He probably wouldn’t get a better opening tonight.

“Hey Dorian, I was thinking,” he began nervously.

Dorian nodded absently, stroking Lord Woolsley’s ears. Bull knew how soft they were. He soldiered on.

“I don’t know if you remember, but we were talking about Damien Palmer books the other day, and uh, well it turns out he’s a local author.”

“Is that so?” Dorian was suddenly very absorbed in patting Lord Woolsley, but Bull soldiered on.

“Yeah, uh, he’s actually coming to the library for a reading next Thursday. For his new book?”

“ _Villa in the Sun,_ ” Dorian filled in.

“Right. Well, obviously I’m going, and so I was wondering if you wanted to come listen with me?” 

Dorian stood and faced Bull abruptly. In an apologetic voice that in no way matched the blind panic in his expression, Dorian intoned, “Sorry Bull, I can’t. I’m working that night.”

“Gotcha,” Bull said, and took refuge in his work.


	11. Death of the Author

The doors of the Denerim Public Library had never looked so imposing. It was a large building, made of stone and brick, and the wide front porch, with a ramp on each side of the stairs and ivy growing up the railings, didn’t soften its facade overmuch. At one point, according to the plaque by the door, it had been an armory, vital in the turbulent times after the fall of the Fereldan Monarchy, and reassuring in the years before science caught up to the threat of the Blight. It had turrets.

Dorian knew that there was a music teacher who rented space in one of those turrets for her lessons, and the library’s book club met in a private room in the other. He was supposed to go to that room, in fact, and there he would talk about writing softcore pornography for a living, the travails of editing and coauthoring, and how he kept his job a secret from the majority of people he talked to in a given day.

People like the Iron Bull.

Varric had printed out a little agenda for Dorian. First, he had to find someone named Sera and do a sound test to make sure everyone in the room could hear his microphone.

After that, he was meant to identify himself to Vivienne de Fer, the library director, who would be doing his introduction herself. Dorian supposed he was meant to be honored by this, but was mostly grateful he wouldn’t actually have to walk right up to Bull and say he was Damien Palmer. He would just let him find out later during the reading itself. Like a coward. 

Of course, Bull was at the front desk when Dorian got through the doors and past the point of no return. He looked happy to see Dorian, too, which just twisted the knife deeper. 

“Hey, you made it after all!” He grinned at Dorian. “Damien should be arriving any minute. Folks are just finding seats for now. We have a pretty good turnout tonight so far.” 

Dorian smiled back weakly. “Before that, can you help me find someone? I’m looking for Sera. My… I was told she was the one to talk to.”

“I think she’s setting up for the reading.” Bull pulled out his phone. “Want me to text her?”

“No, that’s fine!” Dorian yelped. “I’ll go find her myself, thank you.”

He fled.

Sera was indeed in the private room at the top of the turret. Dorian recognized her as his tech person because she was slapping a microphone against the palm of her hand and cursing. She recognized him as Damien Palmer presumably because he was the only person staring at her and clutching a crumpled reading schedule.

“Wait, are you...?” Sera indicated his profession with a series of illustrative hand gestures. 

Dorian nodded.

“You’re younger’n I thought,” she told him. “Widdle bet that you were an old Orlesian broad with a big gray hairdo, but I got the mustache right, so I win!”

He touched his mustache protectively. “Congratulations.”

“Viv made me promise not to ask, but screw that-- how much of the smut in your books is, y’know, _inspired_?”

Dorian, it transpired, had not spent his entire career becoming an experienced liar for nothing. “Oh, all of it,” he said easily. 

Sera made an incredible noise just as the microphone finally connected. 

“Right then,” she said, ignoring the screech of mic feedback and the pained noises of the slowly growing audience. “Author sits on this chair here, papers can go on this stand here, and then you talk into this mic here!”

Dorian sat where she put him and risked only a moment of eye contact with any of the people in the chairs in front of him, before he decided to look only at his pages or over their heads out the window.

He saw Bull come in the door while Vivienne was listing Damien Palmer’s top sellers, but he very, very carefully did not look at him. Instead, he opened his copy of _Villa in the Sun_ to the first bookmark and started to read.

Five thousand interminable words later, Dorian closed his book. “Thank you,” he muttered at the microphone and then launched himself from his seat before anyone had time to start an impromptu Q&A section.

He wanted nothing more than to bolt for the door, but-- he’d promised Varric he’d sign books. He didn’t care if the library hated him and never let him back in for another reading, but he’d promised Varric. It was on his agenda, and Varric had drawn a little star next to it, “as to indicate its importance, Sparkler.” He sat down at the table and took out his pen.

It was better than staring at the full audience had been. They milled around and chatted, and lined up in front of him with a book or two, and it felt less like he was being skewered with a hundred leering eyes all wondering about who he was and what he did that “inspired” him. Once he actually talked to the people who had come to hear Damen Palmer read, they were much less skeevy.

He signed more of his books than he’d seen outside a bookstore. A couple were brand new, but most of them were clearly loved by their owners. There were even a few with the old bad covers, from before Varric hired Merrill full time.

Dorian tried to focus on writing Damien Palmer’s signature over and over again, glad that Varric had insisted that he practice, and not to eavesdrop on his readers as they milled about. It was difficult when they some of them brought up meeting on a fan forum-- about _his books_. He hadn’t even known something like that existed-- but none of them tried to pull him into an invasive or even deep conversation. Maybe he’d looked as terrified as he felt on that tall chair at the front of the room and they’d all agreed to take pity on him.

He dreaded the moment Bull reached the front of the line with a book and a disappointed expression, but it never came. Instead, Dorian handed a copy of _Sea Witches’ Dream_ back to a smiling dwarven woman and found that there was no one else waiting for an autograph.

Vivienne was clearing the table of the cookies and tea that had been put out, Sera was putting things in boxes and wrapping cords up, and Dorian, it seemed, was free to leave.

He stood up and said something polite to Vivienne, and she said something polite back. He wasn’t sure what. He put his copy of _Villa in the Sun_ in his bag and started towards the door.

“So,” He froze at the sound of Bull’s voice. “You really did have to work tonight, huh?” Dorian turned to find Bull smirking at him. It wasn’t a cruel smirk, or even disdainful, but he felt guilt and shame welling up all the same.

“Bull, I’m sorry about--” 

Bull waved a hand and shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t tell my casual acquaintances that I was a famous romance novelist, either. I won’t bug you about it, just wanted to say hi.” He turned to leave.

“It’s not--I--you’re not just a casual acquaintance, Bull,” Dorian blurted. 

A slow smile grew over Bull’s face. “That so?”

If Dorian were anything like the Damien Palmer characters he wrote, he would know what to say here, how to convey all the meaning that he intended. As it was, he stood up straight and responded with the most romantic thing he, Dorian Pavus, could possibly think of: “Um, yes.”

“Can I take you out to dinner, then? Try having a conversation about your job properly, maybe?”

“Yes,” he repeated. “I think I’d rather like that.”

Bull pulled on his coat in a single fluid motion. “Then let’s go.”


	12. Seduction, Etc.

Dorian followed Bull down the winding stairs of the library’s turret, and waited for recrimination. He let Bull open the front door for him, into a bitingly cold afternoon, and listened for the final disappointed goodbye. He walked for a block with Bull, crossed a street, then turned left, and he felt it building like the storm clouds moving in across the river. 

The space they walked into was warm. People moved around them, but Dorian just stared at his feet. Bull stopped walking. “So,” he said.

Dorian braced for impact.

“I’ll get a large white chocolate peppermint mocha with marshmallows, and Dorian…” 

“Uh.” Dorian stared at the barista. She looked back, utterly unconcerned. “Cinnamon latte, please. Medium?”

Bull paid for them both.

“Okay, I can tell this is a much bigger deal for you than it is for me.”

“I’ve been _lying_ to you.”

“Nah, I’ve been lied to before. You were just being private. Plenty of people don’t talk about everything with everyone. I know a lawyer who also captains a _very_ aggressive roller derby team, and I doubt her work friends know much about that. I’m talking multiple reprimands for excessive force.”

“Of course you’d be nice about it,” Dorian groused. “You’re an open book.”

Bull snorted. “The hell I am. You think most children's librarians lose an eye and two fingers shelving picture books?”

“Children...bite?” Dorian drank his latte, embarrassed. 

“How ‘bout I tell you something I don’t tell my casual acquaintances, and could change the way you see me, possibly very badly,” Bull said. “Then we’ll be even, and you can stop looking so guilty.”

“You don’t have to--”

“I know I don’t.” They sat there, quiet. Bull turned his cup in his hands, for once looking as nervous as Dorian felt.

“Ok, here’s a good one.” Dorian hadn’t gotten the impression that Bull was actually choosing between possible secrets to share, but he listened patiently. “Twenty years ago, I wasn’t just a graduate of Qun Scouts, I was Ben Hassrath.”

“A cop?” Dorian asks. It’s hard to imagine Bull, kind, effusive, and gentle, as a hard-faced enforcer of the Qun. But twenty years is a long time-- he’d certainly like to think _he’s_ changed a bit in that time. And, he reminded himself, he and Bull don’t know each other all that well.

“It’s a bit more military than that,” Bull said softly. “I’ve done things that really can’t be discussed in polite company. Or... any company, if we’re in Tevinter.” 

Dorian didn’t think Bull meant that as light-heartedly as he did.

“But that’s different from you talking about Damien Palmer’s books, to me, Damien Palmer, and me not ever actually saying anything.”

Bull shrugged. “Yeah. But so what?”

“So,” Dorian said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Bull chuckled. “You know, the very first thing you said to me was sorry, for breaking the library’s stapler.”

Dorian flushed. “Don’t remind me. I’ve checked every stapler I’ve used since then to make sure I’m not making the same mistake.”

“I thought you weren’t into me. Cassandra consoled me and everything. Well, she told me I was doomed to die horny and alone, but she kinda patted me on the shoulder as she did it. I’m pretty sure that counts as consolation by her standards.”

Dorian could feel his cheeks getting progressively redder, but he could hardly back out now. “To be perfectly honest, I was too flustered at having screwed up in front of the hot librarian to realize he was flirting with me. Plus, I always end up stapling the _weirdest shit_ to that board.”

Bull laughed, not unkindly. “Yeah, what’s up with that, anyways? You don’t actually do all that traditional Avaar felting or whatever it was, do you?”

“I got free entry into that workshop for putting up the posters, and that’s when I discovered I was horribly allergic to heirloom goat wool. Not the worst thing I’ve ever done to myself for the sake of crafts, but quite itchy,” Dorian grimaced. “To answer the larger question, though, writing leads me to spend a lot of time around places with community notice boards, local coffee shops, bookstores, the library. My friends in the arts community all seem to have decided that their favorite favor to ask of me is to put up their advertisements.”

“They must owe you quite a few, then.”

Dorian shrugged. “I’m saving them up for something special, I just can’t decide what.” 

“Really itchy sweater?” Bull suggested. 

“Perhaps not that,” Dorian told him. 

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Bull’s hand moved across the cafe table to cover Dorian’s. 

Dorian’s phone buzzed once in warning, and then the jazz saxophone began. He grabbed it quickly, as always. 

“Sparkler! How’d it go? Sign any _well loved_ copies? Seduce any wealthy fans?”

Too irritable to really think about his response, Dorian replied, “Did it ever occur to you, Varric, that you might be calling to ask if I seduced anyone mid-seduction? I’m _busy._ ” He hung up the phone. 

Bull was staring at him. After a long moment, during which Dorian’s embarrassment reached a fever pitch, Bull said slowly, “I don’t know if it’s hotter that you’re trying to seduce me, or that you just snapped at world famous author Varric Tethras.”

“He’s much easier to snap at after you’ve known him for a decade or so,” Dorian told him, placing his hand back in Bull’s. 

“Can I ask some obnoxious book questions?” Bull asked. “I’ll get back to that seduction thing in a moment.”

Dorian felt his cheeks warming and hid behind the last few sips of his latte. “That seems like a conversation I’d rather have over a glass of wine.”

Bull stood up enthusiastically. “I know just the pace.”


	13. What's Been Missing

Bull didn’t usually mind working on Friday mornings, but he didn’t usually have an impromptu date with his favorite romance author on Thursday nights.

It had been an eventful twenty-four hours, nearly all of it good, though he did regret chickening out when he should have kissed Dorian good night. He was usually the type to go for it, but somehow he felt Dorian was different than the people he normally dated. Not... better, exactly, Bull hated judging people that way, but better for him. 

When he stopped for coffee on his way into work, he caught a whiff of something with more cinnamon than he liked, and the thought of Dorian jumped immediately to mind. More than regretting the night that they could have had, Bull found himself wondering about what the morning could have been like. 

He’d been accused of being a bit of a romantic before, and not just because he read a lot of it. He liked to think about the future, but only abstractly. Books were safer than real people; they were predictable, stable, and he could put them down if they got to be too much. An actual person wasn’t like that, and it had always made him nervous in the past. Besides, even if he found the ideal person he read and dreamed about, how could he possibly measure up to them?

But it was easy to imagine Dorian laughing at his worst puns and sitting through an excited ramble about a new kids’ book because he’d already done that. He could see Dorian complaining about the Southern cold as he walked through the falling snow on his way to work, and he could see himself offering a way to warm up-- his scarf, or his bed, or just holding his hand. It was easy to see all the ways Dorian might fit into his life. He could imagine a future with Dorian, and messy or not, he wanted to see what sort of future Dorian imagined with him, too. 

But the future was the future, and in the present Bull had an actual job to do. The Friday morning Qunlat-Common early literacy group was always a handful. But they also responded best to the bits of his tamassran training that he’d held on to, and the parents and tamas knew all the same songs he’d grown up with, so he loved it.

Most of the flowers from Vivienne’s admirer had been dealt with, but every so often he was still finding petals lurking in unexpected places. Bull had his work cut out for him keeping them out of the toddlers’ mouths, and did another studious sweep of the area while he was cleaning up.

It was the last Friday of the month, too, which meant he had to send Vivienne his lists of proposals for programs and purchases. Sometimes this was fun: he could type “Goats in Pajamas” and know that Vivienne would have to read it and potentially present it to the Board of Directors for approval if the cost was above a certain threshold. Most of the time, though, it was just a lot of spreadsheets.

According to Dorian, Varric Tethras thought spreadsheets and to-do lists were fun, which made him seem far more alien to Bull than the mystique of being a massively successful author ever had. Tools were useful, but hardly ever _fun._

Sometimes they also stopped working, and he had to call Cole over figure out what was wrong with his computer.

At least this time it wasn’t something he’d done-- the internet was down in the whole library. So after a stop in the break room to see if anyone had left any cookies out to share, he went to the circulation desk to see if there were any books that needed to go back on the shelves.

A volunteer scurried by him with a nervous expression and an armful of books-- books that belonged in the adult nonfiction section, not the kid’s room-- as he opened the door. Concerned, Bull looked around for trouble.

He found it at a side desk. Cole and Sera’s technically, but even if they weren’t hopping from one computer malfunction to the next forgotten password, neither of them sat still for long. Vivienne was frowning worriedly at the computer while Cassandra talked to someone Bull couldn’t fully see.

Vivienne ushered him over urgently when she saw him. “Have you been in the children’s section?”

“I just came from there, yeah.” He looked at the anxious group around him. “What’s going on?”

“There is vermin loose in the library.” She said the words with the mortal gravity of a person announcing a recurrence of the Blight. 

Bull heard a stifled hiccuping sob from beside him, turned inexpertly into a cough. It was, as he had feared, the genteel widower. His pug, however, was nowhere to be seen. 

“Don’t worry, sir. We’ll find your dog,” Cassandra said, sounding as consoling as she ever did. 

“We’d better,” Vivienne muttered. “I don’t see him anywhere on the security footage right now, so I’ll have to go through the last half hour room by room.”

Cassandra nodded decisively. “I’ll start in the staff kitchen. Maybe he smelled food and got locked in.” She set off at a confident trot.

“I just don’t understand _why_ he would have left me,” the widower all but wailed. Bull fished his packet of emergency tissues out of his fanny pack.

“He probably smelled something interesting and got distracted,” he told the man, who clutched at the tissues. “It’s not a reflection on his love for you.” 

“Or someone might have kidnapped him! He’s a purebred retropug, you know!”

“Now, Bastien,” Vivienne said, sounding almost soothing, “I find that highly unlikely. Retropugs aren’t even recognized by the Fereldan kennel association. A dognapper could hardly get a fair price for him.”

“You’re right.” Bastien straightened his shoulders. “It’s much more likely that he has decided to drive me into an early grave by going on a joyride around the city.”

“He hasn’t left the building, and he hasn’t left the main floor. He struggles with stairs,” she said the last in an aside to Bull. “Bull, you check the local history room, Bastien, I believe we should get you a cup of water.”

“Yes,” Bastien said faintly. 

Bull headed off on his assignment, but he glanced over his shoulder before he turned the corner. He’d never seen Vivienne be anything less than a consummate professional, of course, but there was something about the way she was letting Bastien lean on her…

She looked back at him at that moment, and surprised Bull by not giving him her customary “get going” look. Instead, she blushed. 

That, Bull thought as he moved past several other frantic staff members to check behind the statues and bookshelves in the local history room, was certainly a development to mull over, too.


	14. Dis-Gruntled

Dorian liked Tuesdays, sure, and after last night, Thursdays were certainly starting to grow on him, but he liked Fridays best of all. Especially days when Trey’s school let out early in anticipation of horrifically cold temperatures-- that hadn’t quite hit yet. But the temperature was dropping and snow was falling thickly down as they walked from the parking lot into the library, but it was nothing that the cinnamon soy (Trey had inherited their father’s lactose intolerance) hot chocolates they were clutching couldn’t fix, and they had serious reading to do. 

They drank them in the front lobby while the snow melted off their shoes. Dorian had seen a few people in the library with covered drinks before, but Trey was the kind of troublemaker who understood the importance of having _some_ rules. Protecting books from hot chocolate made sense to them.

“We’re learning our parts for the play our class is putting on for Wintersend,” Trey told him. “Last year we just extra people in the big kid’s plays and we all had to do the same stuff, like run away from the Darkspawn and dance at the Empress’s ball, but this year we all get our own lines!”

Dorian remembered Trey’s parts in the previous years’ plays very well. He’d filmed all of them.

“And I’m going to be the _ghost_!”

“That’s wonderful,” Dorian agreed.

“And you’re going to help make my costume, right? It’s gotta be _super_ scary.”

Dorian had made his share of truly terrifying ghost costumes, often with the help of actual spirits. “Of course,” he promised. 

“Ooh! Do you think the library has books about ghosts and making costumes and necromancy?”

Dorian grinned. It didn’t count as putting ideas into Trey’s head if Trey came up with them himself. Felix and Kasaanda could complain about how the only kids necromancy classes were on the other side of the city all they wanted, but it wouldn’t be Dorian’s fault.

“We’ll definitely pick some up on our way out, darling, but let’s stick to our plan for now. You remember where the chapter books are, right?”

Trey gave him a _look_. Dorian raised his hands in submission and followed them.

Book choosing was a private ritual for Trey, bordering on sacred. Dorian loitered at the end of the shelf to give them room, keeping half an eye on them while he texted Felix about his budding plans for their ghost costume.

He also kept half an eye out for Bull, but he could hear some sort of activity in the craft area of the kids’ room, and he didn’t want to risk interrupting.

After perusing the (lower two thirds) of the shelves of easy chapter books, Trey returned to him with more than they would probably finish in one morning. But Dorian always encouraged ambition.

“Uncle Dorin, I’ve got the books I want. Can we read in the room with all the armor and the big windows?”

“We can read anywhere you like, darling.” Dorian led the way to the beanbag nook/armor room, nearly tripping over something as he did so. 

“Hello there!” Trey was already picking up the besweatered pug. “What’s your name?”

“Gruntle?” Dorian said incredulously. “What are you doing here?”

Gruntle snuffled at Trey’s face, making them laugh, and then _whuffed_ at Dorian. It wasn’t a proper “woof,” presumably because that would have been rude inside the library. Gruntle seemed like the sort of person who cared about being polite. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gruntle,” Trey said formally, adjusting Gruntle in their arms in order to shake his paw without dropping him. “My name is Felix Gareon Alexius the Third, but you can call me Trey. Everyone else does.” 

Gruntle gave a dignified little sniff. 

“Can Mr. Gruntle read with us too, Uncle Dorin?” 

Dorian looked around for any sign of Bastien, or at least Varric, but found neither. “I suppose it would keep him out of trouble for a while,” he said. “I know his owner, so I’ll send a text to my friend to tell him we’ve got Gruntle and we’ll make sure he doesn’t wander off again.”

Trey let out an excited whoop before remembering they had to use their inside voice in the library, and hurried off to the beanbag nook-- “no running in the library” was not one of the rules they felt was important. Dorian ambled after them, hastily texting Varric “Found Grntl. Bstn w/ u?????” as he struggled to keep up.

It was a good Friday, which he had not anticipated twenty four hours ago.

But as much as he had dreaded a public reading it had been, perhaps not comfortable, but...fine. Good, even, to meet his fans. 

Better, after, to have dinner with Bull. He wasn’t even worried about the fact that they didn’t kiss. The way Bull had looked at him at the door...Dorian felt his cheeks warm just thinking about it. The kiss would come next time, Dorian was certain of it. And it would be worth the wait. 

“I don’t think any of these books have kissing in them,” Trey told him apologetically.

“Okay?” Dorian said, wondering if Trey had learned to read minds recently. He wouldn’t put it past them. 

“I heard you telling Ma you were tired of finding new ways to say “kiss,” so maybe you need to do research like Dad sometimes does? But I don’t think any of these will help.”

Dorian was glad Trey couldn’t read minds yet, but he wasn’t going to talk about work in their house ever again, even if he was _sure_ they were asleep. “Don’t worry about it, darling. I’ll do that research when I’m at work. Right now is for you.”

Trey seemed pleased with that answer, and Gruntle whuffed his approval as well.

They read in companionable mostly-silence for a time, Trey reaching over every few pages to poke Dorian add ask for help sounding something out. Gruntle commandeered his own beanbag and fell peacefully asleep with his head pillowed on a _Spirits' Circle_ book. Eventually, though, Dorian was jolted out of his peaceable Sunday mood by a crow of triumph. 

“Viv!” Sera bellowed at top volume, “Vivvy, I found ‘im!”

“Oh thank Andraste he’s all right,” came Vivienne’s voice, and before Dorian had time to ask what was going on, the director of the library had come in and swooped Gruntle into her arms.


	15. Detention, And Other Places To Kiss

Everyone knew when Sera found Gruntle. Bull didn’t know what her second, higher-pitched, less-intelligible yell meant until he rounded the corner and saw her drop a scrabbling, snorting pug and grab her hand in pain.

There was a small kerfuffle as Bastien yelped in panic, Trey scrabbled backward, and Dorian flung out a hand to cast a spell. It caught Gruntle in a glowing net, depositing him gently on the ground, right-side up.

Bastien dashed forward to comfort Gruntle, who didn’t seem to be that put out now that he was back on his own feet.

“Good,” Vivienne declared. “Now we can put this issue to rest. Bastien, I simply don’t think it’s safe to let Gruntle wander the library and bother any random passersby.”

“Oh, Dorian isn’t random,” Bastien said. “He works with a very good friend of mine.”

“Hm.” Vivienne gave Dorian a thoughtful look. “Regardless, would you please come to my office? It’s time we had another official discussion about pets in the library, I think.”

“Oh no.” Bastien winked theatrically at them all, then followed her, Gruntle panting happily at his heels.

“Is Gruntle’s dad going to get detention?” Trey asked solemnly.

Bull nearly cackled. “Maybe. But he’s a smart guy. He’ll be fine.”

Trey watched Bastien’s retreating back with deep concern for another three seconds. “Okay!” They sat back down and picked their book back up.

“Hi,” Bull said.

Dorian smiled hesitantly. He looked soft today, warm in a thick sweater and slightly unfashionable corduroys. Bull liked it on him. “Hi.”

Sera made a loud gagging noise. “Bye.” She swanned off to ruin someone else’s moment. 

“So, uh. How do you know the guy who’s been plaguing my boss with his unleashed animal in a public space for three months?”

Dorian glanced at the doorway Bastien and Vivienne had just vacated and snorted. “Oh, yes, she’s clearly incensed with him.” 

Bull shrugged. “Everyone has their own way of showing affection.” 

“I don’t know him that well, really,” he lowered his voice a bit, “but, and don’t tell anyone I told you this-- he appears to be some sort of combination of investor and muse for my... boss.” 

Bull considered for a moment. “You don’t mean the fox.”

“What fox?” Trey asked.

“Er… the fox is a character in a book.”

“A book with no pictures?” Trey asked, just a little too sly. “The kind you write that I would think is super boring?”

“There is some...vivid imagery. In there. Very technical. How’s Merlin Mouse doing?” Dorian redirected clumsily.

Bull had a sudden window into a series of inexpert and escalating cover stories. Trey seemed smart, and was definitely the type to venture out of the YA room as soon as possible. He didn’t think the coverup would last much longer.

“He’s upset about being small again.” Trey sounded highly disappointed in Merlin Mouse. 

“Well, not all of our struggles go away overnight.” 

“There should be a book about a mouse that… no! About a dog that meets… a giant magic bumble bee! And they should fight dragons! And evil necromancers. But not good necromancers. They should have good necromancer friend who helps them fight the evil necromancers. Are there nice dragons?” Bull wanted to step in and say, maybe, but Trey kept going. “Well, maybe the dragons aren’t hurting people on purpose? Maybe they can’t stop breathing fire!”

“That would be quite a difficulty,” Dorian agreed. Bull could practically see him taking notes. 

“Maybe the dragon and the nice necromancer fall in love?” Bull offered, since that was the only contribution he could think of.

“Yuck!” Trey pronounced firmly. “They’re too busy for kissing. They’re fighting a billion tiny mice that want to eat everything in the whole world.”

“But after the mice...?” Dorian prompted.

“I guess they could fall in love then,” Trey conceded, “But why would anyone want to read a book that’s just about people kissing all the time?”

“Why indeed,” Dorian said dryly.

Trey huffed and put down their Merlin Mouse book. “I’m _bored,_ ” they declared. “Can we go get more cocoa?”

“Already?” Dorian asked. “It’s only been half an hour.”

“In their defense,” Bull muttered, “Merlin is kind of whiny for a mouse with sweet magic powers and a talking mabari.” 

“Can we go get more cocoa _please_ ,” asked Trey. “I didn’t get _any_ yesterday, and I could practice magic? I could try to warm the cocoa up a lot, and I can’t do that here to the books.”

“Please don’t practice warming up the books,” Bull cut in.

“Fine,” Dorian said, not looking nearly as put upon as he was trying to sound. “Bull, would you like-- oh, sorry, you’re working. Of course.”

Bull glanced towards Vivienne’s office, where the door remained firmly closed, and to the children’s desk, where Cassandra and Sera were busily gossiping, since there were no other kids currently in the library. 

“I could take my lunch now,” Bull said. It was only half an hour earlier than normal. “I don’t have another program ‘till painting at three thirty.”

“Painting?” Trey asked. “What kind of painting?”

“Watercolor,” Bull said, helping them to gather their books. “I have a friend a couple years older than you who comes in on Fridays for some advice on her work. Last week we painted trees, but we’ve also done dogs and space and a few other things.”

“Like _bees_?” Trey asked.

Bull nodded. “We can do bees for sure.”

Trey turned to Dorian. “Can we come back and paint please?”

“It might be a bit advanced for you, darling, but I’m happy to help you try if that’s okay with Bull.”

Trey clearly took that as a challenge, but It was very okay with Bull.


	16. Grown Up Stuff

The snow had stopped falling while they were inside, and Trey made a game out of walking in front of Bull and Dorian to melt the inch or so that had accumulated on the sidewalk.

Dorian couldn’t help stealing a glance out of the corner of his eye every so often, because it felt so… sweet, to just be walking down the street together. Innocent, if it weren’t for the way his own thoughts kept drifting. 

He insisted on buying everyone’s cocoa, since Bull had bought him coffee, on their first date. Or was the cider their first date? And did dinner count as a separate date from the coffee, or was it all one since it had been the same day? Technically, he realized, this was less than twenty four hours later, and could also be counted as the same day, sort of. Trey’s presence perhaps negated the romantic aspect most dates required, though.

Dating was _very_ complicated, Dorian decided, and nowhere near as straightforward as he made it seem in his books.

“In Orleasian, this is called a guimauve.” Bull fished a marshmallow out of his cocoa on a spoon and showed it to Trey.

They looked positively spellbound. “Can you speak Orleasian, Mister Bill?” 

“A bit.” Bull glanced at Dorian. “And some Antivan, Rivani, and of course Qunlat.”

Dorian was very aware that he was supposed to find this information romantic and impressive. It was a detail he’d included in at least three books to distinguish the romantic interest as worldly and intelligent. 

“Can you speak Ancient Tevene?” Trey asked. “Uncle Dorin can, and that’s definitely the coolest language.”

“I can recite a couple poems in Ancient Tevene,” Bull told him. “Does that count?” 

The reason Dorian had used a multilingual education as a romantic selling point was because he personally found it extremely attractive. He sat still and drank his cocoa.

“Do you know what they mean, though?” Trey asked suspiciously. 

“I know a...loose translation.” 

Trey immediately lost interest. Dorian did not. “Do you have a favorite poet?” he asked.

“Uh, I’m not remembering the name right now.” Bull was distinctly flushed. “They’re very, um, technical poems?”

Trey harrumphed, a skill Dorian suspected they had learned from their grandfather.

“Oh really?” he pressed, enjoying himself immensely. “Very carefully structured, are they? Very tight rhyme schemes?”

“And uh, fluid verse.” 

Trey chose that moment to “practice magic” by boiling their cocoa so hard it sprayed out of its cup. Bull looked almost relieved as he expertly dodged the boiling soy milk.

They looked between Bull and Dorian grouchily. “I know when grownups are talking about secret stuff.”

“Sorry, darling.” Dorian wiped the table off with his napkin. 

“You guys can talk about taxes or whatever grownup stuff later. I wanna talk about being a ghost.” 

Later, when Bull was back in the library and Dorian was loading Trey into the car, he got a text from Bull. _Wanna talk about taxes next Friday over drinks?_

Dorian considered calling Varric for advice on what to wear for a sort-of-first, sort-of-third date but ultimately did not. He didn’t need advice from his boss. He made Felix and Kassanda choose from three outfits via text, instead.

The address that Bull texted him was for a quaint little booze and coffee house downtown. It was too sincere to be truly hipster, and too old fashioned to be anything else. Dorian liked it almost instantly. 

Bull was already sitting at one of the back booths when he got there, and stood up to take Dorian’s coat. His hands lingered a little on Dorian’s shoulders, warm through the cold fabric of his shirt.

“Thank you,” Dorian murmured, feeling a little like the pampered lord in his second solo book. “It’s very cold outside,” he said as he started to sit down.

“I want to kiss you,” Bull announced abruptly. 

Dorian looked up at him, startled into smiling. “Oh?” 

“Yeah. I do.” He faltered momentarily. “Maybe that isn’t very romantic or... timed right or... whatever. But look, I’ve been thinking about it. About you. And I think, if you’re into it, we should just... kiss. Tonight, ideally. Or right now. Before it gets weird or I chicken out again.”

Bull’s hand was right near his, so he took it. “So kiss me, then.” 

“I will.” 

“Okay.” Dorian closed his eyes and waited, smiling wider. He waited a little longer than he thought he was going to. “Bull?” 

“Yeah, I’m just... I didn’t really think it would work out that well I just need a second to... adjust.” Bull took a deep breath, leaned forwards, and kissed Dorian. 

Dorian had described quite a few first kisses, in his line of work. Had experienced perhaps fewer of them than he had written, but this one, the thought, was good. Not fireworks or violins good, but they type of good Dorian might describe with some hackneyed line like, “and it was then he knew, this was his last first kiss.” 

Bull’s hands were warm against his skin, one in his own hand and one gently cupping the side of his face. Dorian’s lips were chapped from the horrid, dry air, and he had to lean up a little too far on his toes, but that was something they could work on. 

When he opened his eyes, Bull was smiling at him. Outside, it began to snow. 

The next morning, the snow melted, but it was soon replaced. A few days later, it all conspired to freeze into ice that made every sidewalk in the city into a glittering health hazard. Bull caught Dorian one-handed and then nearly fell on his own ass.

Dorian and Varric watched the hit counter on the VTP.com listing for _Villa in the Sun_ and opened a bottle of champagne when they sold their ten thousandth copy of the opening month. Bull somehow convinced Dorian to go ice skating. Trey turned seven. Isabela could paint an adorable dog, but they couldn’t agree on a workable design for the dragon, so Dorian found himself once again without an illustrator.

Still, the kissing was nice. Even nicer was the way it kept happening, the way Dorian never had to ask for it. Amongst everything else, Bull made time for Dorian. It was more than enough.


	17. Banned Books Week Part 1

Banned books week was always a fun time in the library. There were enough books that had been called subversive, unethical, or magically dangerous by one or another ruling group over the years that the adult section had extended the event to a full month and did a display each week. This year their themes were books that had been called “anti-Circle,” “a misuse of the Chant of Light,” “Pro-Magisterium,” and in an attempt to end on a humorous note that Bull wasn’t sure would actually fly in Ferelden, “anti-dog.” 

He privately thought it was hilarious that there was at least one Damien Palmer book on the list for each week.

The kids’ display was, of course, Bull and Cassandra’s job. They had different opinions on what sort of issues were important to highlight. She preferred to focus on more academic or historical books geared towards older kids that had been pulled off the shelf for giving too much information about the wrong type of thing. Bull liked to find the books that seemed totally innocuous in the present day but had once been scandalous. He also liked the books that had never been scandalous to anyone who wasn’t actively looking to be scandalized, like the dozens of picture books with talking animals that the AMOT (Andrastrian Mothers of Thedas) had lambasted as encouraging discourse with spirits.

Their compromise was creating a carefully balanced number of engaging, brightly colored picture books and actual bricks on the display, and they were pretty good about staying civil in the planning stages.

But as soon as someone took a book to read or check out, whoever got to the display first with a new book got to replace it, and then all bets were off. Last year, she’d taken scandalous advantage of Bull being out sick for two days, and he was determined not to slip up at all this time around.

Their rules of engagement prevented him from actually taking her books down himself, of course, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t recommend them.

“I admit I’m a bit confused.” Dorian had started bringing his laptop to the library to work instead of to coffee shops. “Doesn’t more people checking out her books mean she’s winning? Shouldn’t you be talking up your choices?”

“No,” Bull told him. “ _We_ win a pizza from the YA librarians if we have more total checkouts during Haring than they do. _I_ win if I look at the display and I like it.”

Dorian gave him a look of fond exasperation, and Bull felt like he’d won something else entirely. 

He headed over to his desk, where a family with two kids under five were slowly making their way to check out an impressive stack of books. Farris and her mom showed up just after, bursting with excitement to show him her latest pictures of Fizzgig.

“I can see how hard you’ve been working,” Bull told her as she proudly showed him five of her best pictures. He knew she had at least twenty more stashed somewhere. 

She presented him with a page that he’d given her last time she’d spent half an hour at the library. He’d drawn a dragon on part of it and she’d loved it so much he had to give it to her. Now she gave it back with a very careful Fizzgig drawn next to it.

He felt a little tear welling up in his eye. “I love it,” he told her. “Thank you.”

As soon as she went to peruse the shelves, he brought it over to Dorian. “Please keep this safe for me. It’s the most valuable thing I’ve been given all day.”

“I’m working very hard not to take that as a challenge,” Dorian laughed, taking the picture. “Whose dragon is this?”

“Mine,” Bull admitted. “It’s not as accurate as I wish it was. I only had about ten minutes and I was running the craft hour.”

“No, it’s perfect,” Dorian said. He looked thoughtful. “I have to leave for my meeting with Varric soon. Are well still on for dinner tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Bull told him.

Dorian smiled.

A pleasant sort of calm settled over Bull the rest of the afternoon as he reflected on how much he enjoyed making Dorian smile. If someone had told him just a month or two ago that he would be ...unofficial boyfriends with? Kind of dating? ...courting? his favorite living author, he would have expected him to be more like his books. Damien Palmer characters had usually fucked twenty or thirty times by now, but had maybe three decent conversations. It was almost strange, in the context of those novels, to realize that Bull was completely certain of his standing with Dorian, even if he wasn’t quite sure what to call it. 

“This one is heavy,” Farris announced, hefting one of Cassandra’s banned picks. “Is it illuminated?” 

“Hm?” Bull snapped out of his musings and glanced at the cover. “I think it’s got some chapter illustrations, but that one’s not fully illuminated or anything. Tell you what, though, if you read the whole thing, I’ll take you to the rare books room and let you look through our edition that is.” 

Farris glanced scornfully at the six hundred page brick. “Not a problem. I’ll see you next week.” 

Meanwhile, Farris’s mother, whom Bull still knew only as “Skinner,” expertly swiped a Damien Palmer off of an end cap without giving her daughter the opportunity to so much as glance at the cover. 

Dorian was passionate, funny, acerbic, and for a guy who wrote porn for a living, incredibly shy about bedroom stuff. Bull was sure Dorian liked him almost as much as he liked Dorian, but this was also maybe the longest he’d dated someone without doing more than kissing since he was a teenager. Perhaps even more surprising to Bull than Dorian’s shyness was the fact that he really didn’t mind going slow this time. After all, Dorian was a great kisser. 

Bull let out a cheerful whistle as he replaced the copy of _Trials of the Maleficar_ Farris checked out with _Drog the Dragon Issue #1_. Today was shaping up to be pretty great, and it wasn’t even dinnertime yet.


	18. Something Classical

“I can’t help but noticing that this is not the address for a Northern Cuisine restaurant,” Bull said some hours later as he followed Dorian up a set of dark, rickety wooden stairs.

“I don’t believe I ever said we were going to a restaurant,” Bull could hear the smirk in Dorian’s voice as he answered. “In fact, I believe I was quite careful to say that I knew where we could get excellent Northern food for dinner without ever mentioning the word restaurant.”

“I trust you.” 

Dorian turned to give Bull a warm smile before he unlocked the peeling door to an apartment wedged above a Rivaini takeout place and some sort of denim boutique. 

Despite how creepy the entrance had been, Dorian’s apartment was beautiful. The whole western wall was replaced with a slanted window that looked out onto the snow-blanketed skyline, and the whole place was filled with a mix of hardy Fereldan plants and fussy, tropical northern blooms in enchanted pots and carefully runed glass light domes that reminded Bull of fairy tales about enchanted roses. As beautiful as it was, it smelled even better; the rich, spicy scent of curry and freshly cooked garlic naan filled Bull’s nostrils.

There was something about the place that said not just “home,” but “haven.” He didn’t want to ask how many people Dorian had ever brought here, but it seemed so _private_ that he wanted to guess low. And he thought, maybe a little selfishly, that none of them could have understood how special it was to be welcomed here.

“Do you prefer jazz or classical?” Dorian asked, holding up two records, because of course he had a record player. “I’ve been learning to appreciate Fereldan folk music but I don’t find it a very calming background, personally.”

“Uhh, classical,” Bull told him, praying that Dorian didn’t want him to talk knowledgeably about composers. 

“Jazz would be a bit on the nose, wouldn’t it?” 

“Hm?” Bull was too busy examining the slender fronds of some kind of fern to parse Dorian’s comment. 

“Nothing. It’s just a nice night for a bit of classical, is all.” Dorian went to the kitchen, which was something of a disaster, and returned with two plates loaded with a thick, golden orange curry, rice, and naan. “I thought we could eat on the couch if you--if you’d like to do that, that is.” He seemed shy about asking,though for what reason Bull hadn’t pinned down just yet. 

“Sounds good.” Bull settled himself on Dorian’s light brown couch, letting Dorian pass him both plates while he got settled against Bull’s side. It wasn’t the most convenient way to eat dinner, sharing space with the lilies on the coffee table and frequently knocking elbows, but it was one of the nicest meals Bull had had in a long time. 

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Bull asked about halfway through his plate. 

“Ah, well, my parents were--are, I suppose--quite wealthy, and quite disinterested in me. They had a personal chef, Amaryllis, who took a liking to me. She was like a mother to me, and I grew up learning to cook at her side. She fell quite ill, just before I left Tevinter. Someday I’d like to go back, put some orchids on her grave.” 

Sometimes Bull knew the perfect words. Sometimes he could only put down his plate on the coffee table so he could wrap both his arms around Dorian. Dorian gripped his fingers and leaned into the hug.

“I think she would have liked you.”

Bull hoped that was true.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Amaryllis? Like, Warden Commander Amaryllis? From the _Veilfire Keep Saga_?”

“An homage,” Dorian admitted.

“Oh no.” Bull buried his face in Dorian’s shoulder. “I was always so disappointed that you never wrote a book about her and Warden Constable Arum’s younger days.”

“You’re telling me you thought my literary homage to my adopted mother was _hot_?” Dorian laughed.

“Powerful older woman, firm command of her troops and her massive broadsword? All the scars you gave her?” 

Dorian snorted. “Good to know what does it for you.” 

“I have varied interests,” he said primly.

“Good,” Dorian said again, and kissed him.

“Wait a second,” Bull pulled back. “You cooked me dinner.”

Dorian reluctantly opened his eyes. “Yes?”

“In your apartment. We ate it on the couch.” He gestured at the table, the couch, and themselves as clearly as he could without actually moving his hands off of Dorian.

“Yes?” Dorian’s own hands were moving across his chest in a very distracting way.

“Are you seducing me?” 

Dorian stared at him for a long moment. “ _Obviously_.” 

Bull thought hard about the appropriate thing to say that encompassed the sudden swell of comprehension, lust, and gratitude. “Cool,” he said, and resumed kissing Dorian.

Now that they were finally on the same page, Dorian kissed with intent, straddling Bull’s hips as he pressed him down on the couch. “This good?” 

Dorian was a comforting weight, and there were actual violins swelling in the background. Classical was indeed a good choice. “So good.” 

Bull slid his fingers experimentally under the hem of Dorian’s shirt. “You have a tattoo?” he asked, halfway surprised.

Up close, he could see that Dorian’s blush traveled down his neck, and he kissed the faint line of his collarbone, just because he could.

“It’s not actually sexy,” Dorian said, with a little gasp when Bull’s lips touched his skin. His pulse jumped and his fingers curled against Bull’s chest. “Varric and I got matching tattoos when we were celebrating the millionth copy of the first book we co-authored. We were a little drunk. One of our cover illustrators did them. Isabela.”

He pulled his shirt up to show Bull the round-faced, curly-haired cherub holding a book with an especially explicit version of the _Pride and Desire_ cover art.

“Varric’s is on his ass,” he told Bull.

It wasn’t exactly sexy, it was true. It was more like getting hit with a truck full of the _millions_ of copies of popular romance novels the man sitting on his lap had written. 

“Oh,” Bull said. 

Dorian sagged. “Forget I said anything about Varric. Or my books. I’m not as romantic as I should be, am I?”

“Huh? Hey, no, c’mere,” Bull lifted Dorian’s chin until his eye met his. “I was just thinking how inadequate I feel compared to the hundreds of dudes who would kill to be here with you. It’s...well actually it’s not a great tattoo. I mean, well executed, kind of hilarious, but definitely not cool or sexy. But it’s part of you. It’s about an achievement.”

Dorian gave him a lopsided kind of smile. “Definitely not cool or sexy, though?” 

“Hey, if you had nothing holding you back I’d probably just combust right here, and that wouldn’t help anyone would it?” 

“I suppose not.” 

Bull touched the tattoo with careful fingers. “You intimidate the hell out of me, Dorian, you know that? You built dozens of romances that millions, I mean _millions_ of people read and thought ‘I want that.’ I’m just over here trying to build you one.” 

Dorian sat still for a moment, utterly poleaxed. 

“So uh, now that we’ve both kinda had a little existential breakdown,” Bull began, “What do you think about maybe going back to kissing?”

“My thoughts are... quite positive,” Dorian said, pulling his shirt the rest of the way off and tossing it casually over a cactus. 

He leaned down and kissed Bull, one hand on his horn to tilt his head to the perfect angle. In this, as in most things, Bull was happy to go where Dorian led him.


	19. Especially Banned Books

Dorian was, admittedly, a bit of an overplanner. That’s what some of his kinder teachers had called it, when he envisioned all the possible courses an event might take and prepared himself for not only the most likely outcome, but the worst one as well.

So while he had certainly had a wonderful time imagining what it might be like if his romantic evening with Bull went well, he was still a bit overwhelmed to find it actually going so.

But here he was, leading Bull to his bedroom and getting distracted on the way by how Bull’s laugh seemed deeper and richer in the small space of the hall, how Bull hadn’t stopped touching him since they had first sat down to eat. 

Bull had one hand down the back of Dorian’s jeans, Dorian had two working off Bull’s sweater, and this was absolutely the best case scenario. Dorian stumbled a bit pulling open his bedroom door, and Bull took the opportunity to press him against the wall, mouthing at his neck and leaving what Dorian was sure would be a thoroughly unprofessional hickey. Dorian threw himself into giving as good as he got, pulling Bull’s shirt and sweater off together, or at least trying to. 

“Just let me uh-- hang on I can--” Bull was laughing breathlessly as he tried to untangle this clothes where they’d gotten caught on his horns. Dorian lost interest in that problem as soon as he had an opportunity to put his hands and mouth on Bull’s neck and waist, and allowed Bull to deal with the issue alone. The tangle would probably also have been easier to deal with if Bull was willing to stop kissing him. 

As it was, Bull had just barely tossed his shirt and sweater on the ground in the hall when Dorian finally came to his senses enough to pull open his bedroom door and yank the two of them through it. 

Bull broke away long enough to look around, his sharp eye taking in the dirty clothes piled in the corner, the embarrassing shelf of Dorian’s own books, the exquisitely detailed oil portrait of a furby Merrill had painted that Dorian still couldn’t tell was a joke or not. Dorian felt a hot flush creep up his face but Bull looked almost awestruck. “You don’t uh... you don’t bring people here, often, do you?” 

Dorian tried to think who the last person besides Trey to be in his bedroom was, and came up empty. “Not often, no.” 

“Thank you,” Bull said sincerely, “for trusting me with this.” 

The moment might have turned almost unbearably tender had Bull not then scooped Dorian up and deposited him unceremoniously on the bed, tugging off his jeans before pausing to remove his own pants as well. “So how do you want to do this?”

Dorian smirked “I assure you, I’m quite flexible.” 

Bull snorted. “I’ll bet.”

“Writing is very physically demanding, I’ll have you know. I do yoga.”

“I’m very impressed,” Bull said, managing to sound sincere and teasing at the same time, “but I was mostly asking how you feel about blowjobs. Personally, I really like giving them.”

“Oh.” Dorian’s mind sputtered to a brief halt. “Uh, certainly quite positive.”

Bull’s smile turned a little predatory. “Excellent,” he said, and pulled Dorian’s underwear off, going carefully to his knees at the edge of the bed.

Dorian watched Bull look at him. He felt a bit like he was on display, but he’d always liked that feeling, and Bull was certainly an appreciative audience. Dorian had taken extra time on both his laundry and his landscaping in anticipation of this event exactly, and he was certainly gratified to feel that pay off.

Bull looked back up at him and smiled, and Dorian couldn’t help but smile back. He stifled a laugh when he felt Bull’s hands on his ankles, though they moved up his legs at a tantalizing pace. He didn’t press hard, but Dorian could feel every place the edges of his nails touched his skin.

Bull didn’t look away from Dorian’s face until his hands were at his hips again. “All good?” he asked. Dorian nodded.

Dorian’s last boyfriend hadn’t liked giving blowjobs. He’d also sort of sucked at it. That, combined with the time since that last boyfriend, made this one sort of magical by comparison. Bull took his time, working Dorian into his mouth by degrees. 

Dorian recalled that he’d had a plan for the evening. It had involved him doing the lion’s share of the actual seduction, maybe blowing Bull or perhaps getting fucked, and then hopefully enticing Bull into some cuddling before he left for the night. 

Bull gently moved one of Dorian’s hands to his horn, demonstrating through gesture that Dorian was welcome to tug as hard as he liked. Dorian didn’t do that so much as he let out a breathy whine at the _thought_ of the action, and flopped back on the bed. 

The feeling of Bull smirking around Dorian’s cock was a new one, but not altogether unpleasant. Dorian gathered himself enough to right his grip on Bull’s horns, Bull’s eye never leaving his. 

Bull leaned over Dorian and began to move in earnest, sliding up and down his length even as he glanced up at Dorian, checking in. It seemed like he could feel every small sound Bull made, even if he couldn’t hear them over the rushing of the blood in his ears.

“Bull,” Dorian’s voice sounded breathy to his own ears as he tugged weakly on Bull’s horns. “Bull, if you want me to be good for anything else tonight you’ll have to stop soon.” 

He did, barely, tracing Dorian’s cock with featherlight touches instead. He pillowed his head on Dorian’s thigh, close enough that Dorian could feel the stir of air caused by Bull’s ragged breathing. He found it comforting, knowing how deeply this was affecting Bull, too. 

“You sure know how to flatter a guy.”

“It’s hardly flattery if it’s true,” Dorian offered with a weak chuckle.

Bull bit his lip thoughtfully. “I’ve only got so long left on my knee anyways. There’s one other thing I’d like to do while I’m down here, though.”

“By all means.” Dorian waved a hand. He’d prepared for all sorts of eventualities.

The feeling of the flat of Bull’s tongue on his asshole was still a bit startling, though. It couldn’t not be, Dorian supposed, but he moved quickly on from that to simply enjoying the way Bull was taking care of him. 

Dorian was perhaps not as experienced as his books might lead one to believe, but he was hardly a blushing virgin, either. This was different, though. When he’d been eaten out previously, it had always felt dirty, somehow. Forbidden. Bull seemed shameless in the best way. He was talented, and that was certainly part of what had Dorian melting. The rest was… the rest of it. Bull’s hands warm and solid on his skin, the way he trusted Bull, the way he-- 

Dorian threw back his head with a groan, Bull working him through it before he came up for air. 

“Good?” Bull asked, grinning. 

“Do you--” Dorian paused to catch his breath for a moment, “Do you really need to ask?” 

Bull got carefully to his feet, shaking out his left leg. “If you can still talk, maybe.”

Dorian rolled over onto his back and gave him the finger, perhaps not entirely verbal just yet. Laid flat just as much by considering the reality of his attachment to Bull as by the spectacular orgasm. Trying to regain some dignity, he rasped, “So are you just going to stand there or are you going to come over here and fuck me?”

Bull cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. “I’m definitely coming over there, but uh, this whole seduction thing kind of caught me by surprise and I don’t have my...” he gestured vaguely to his crotch region. 

Dorian sat up, forcing his brain into gear. “Your... oh. _Oh._ ” The pieces clicked into place. “You left your dick at home,” he blurted unromantically. 

“Pretty much,” Bull said. “I don’t really carry a harness and strap in my gym bag.”

Dorian filed that away for further discussion. If he _did_...

“I’m not generally secretive about being trans,” Bull continued. “I would have brought it up if I'd known I was going to be seduced tonight, but now it’s kind of relevant, so...” 

“Well.” Dorian moved to make space on the bed for Bull to sit. “I do have a dildo in my night stand. If you’re interested in fucking me with that, it’s absolutely on the table. But I also just had the best orgasm I’ve had in months, so I’m more interested in what you would like right now.”

Bull smiled at him, and Dorian’s heart did unpoetic things.

“I would like to kiss you,” he told Bull. “As a first step. If you’re amenable to it, going down on you can fit in anytime between steps two and twenty-seven.”

Bull smirked at him, leaning forward to accept the kiss, and several after it. “You have a plan, then?” 

Dorian laced his fingers with Bull’s. “Darling, I have severe anxiety. I have a plan for just about everything.”


	20. Coffee, Crepes, and Questions

Dorian woke up, for once, perfectly warm. Bull laid next to him, throwing heat like a furnace and making about as much noise with his snores. Dorian was a bit alarmed to discover he found it endearing. 

He had enough emotional intelligence to know that he found an increasingly large number of things about Bull endearing. The way he carefully laid out the statistically correct number of craft supplies for each age group he worked with, for instance, or the fact that Bull regularly updated an elaborate spreadsheet to help him determine the statistically correct number of each craft supply by age group for library activities. The fact that, despite Dorian initially shying away from dating someone who’d read his books, Bull seemed to care about the characters as much as he did.

And of course, the way he ate Dorian’s ass last night. The way he had casually offered to do so repeatedly in the future.

It was all leading up to a distressingly obvious conclusion, one that Dorian simply could not consider before he’d had his coffee.

The trouble was, Dorian didn’t want to move. He was warm, safe, held. All those sorts of nonsense afterglow things he made his living writing about but so rarely got to experience for himself. 

He assumed Bull had an alarm on his phone if he needed to be anywhere at a certain time. Dorian himself preferred to live with as few daily deadlines as possible. As long as he submitted his drafts to Varric on time and showed up for Trey, Kasaanda, and Felix when he said he was going to, he figured he could get out of bed whenever he felt like it.

He remembered that they’d left dinner half-eaten on the coffee table and forced himself upright. Making Bull deal with that would set a terrible precedent, and he planned for his apartment to be a place where Bull wanted to be quite frequently in the future.

“Where’re y’goin’?” Bull muttered as Dorian shuffled reluctantly out of bed. It was so cold in his room and he wasn’t wearing any of his usual layers of flannel.

“Just getting coffee started, amatus.” Dorian wasn’t sure if Bull knew enough Tevene for the meaning to get through, wasn’t sure he knew if he wanted him to.

Bull sat up, blearily rubbing his eye. “Can I help? I make good omelettes.”

“Bull, I have something terrible to admit to you.”   
“More terrible than abandoning me for coffee?”

“Perhaps. I,” and here Dorian gave a dramatic pause, “don’t like eggs that much.” 

Bull shrugged, the movement briefly dislodging the comforter from his bare chest before he pulled it back up to keep the chill of the room away. “I make pretty good crepes, too. You got nutella?” 

“Do I look like a heathen?” Dorian demanded, throwing his fluffiest dressing gown over his shoulders. “Of course I have nutella.”

“What about an extra toothbrush?” Bull asked. “That’s another thing I don’t bring with me everywhere.”

“Of course I do,” Dorian lied confidently. He went to the bathroom and rummaged around until he found a sealed toothbrush he must have purchased on sale at some point. “Here you go.” 

Bull kissed his cheek and slipped past him into the bathroom.

It was too domestic for Dorian. He went to the kitchen, pulling on his warmest flannel pajama bottoms as he exited the bedroom.

Dorian was setting the kettle on the stove for the Orlesian press as Bull emerged, wearing a pair of sweats that had always been too big for Dorian. “I stole your clothes. Hope you don’t mind.” 

He searched desperately for the right words, throat suddenly dry. “Not in the least.”

The kettle sputtered, a prelude to whistling, and Dorian spun into action, grabbing the flour out of the cupboard. 

When he turned back around, Bull was much closer to him. “Good morning,” he said.

Bull gently lifted the flour out of his hands and set it on the counter. “Good morning.” Dorian felt acutely aware of how the product he hadn’t washed out of his hair was making it an utter mess, and how his kitchen floor needed to be swept, and how he couldn’t seem to do anything except look at Bull.

He touched the side of Bull’s face, where the strap of his eyepatch usually rested, and traced the line of his jaw.

The kettle began to shriek, and Dorian remembered that Bull might have brushed his teeth, but _he_ hadn’t, and that he needed to water his plants and couldn’t afford to get too distracted.

He poured the water into the Orlesian press and then filled his watering can, perhaps taking longer than strictly necessary to wander from pot to pot, both avoiding Bull’s presence in his home and savoring it. Alas, at a certain point Dorian was forced to return to the kitchen lest the coffee become overbrewed and weird tasting. He returned his watering can to its home under the sink and began slowly plunging the press down. 

Bull was placidly rummaging through Dorian’s drawers looking for a whisk. “Hey, we’re boyfriends, right?”

Dorian’s hand slipped on the press, narrowly avoiding spraying coffee over the counter. When he glanced back, Bull hadn’t even turned around. 

“I mean, I’ve been kind of assuming we were,” he continued, “I definitely feel pretty exclusive about you. I just figured I should check in, make sure that’s also where you’re at with this whole thing as well.” 

Dorian carefully poured himself a cup of coffee, contemplated literary use of the ironic understatement. “I--yes. I feel that way about you, too.”

“Good.” Even in profile, Dorian could see that Bull was beaming at him. “What fruits have you got?”

Dorian had a bag of frozen strawberries, one sad apple, and an official boyfriend who appeared to be hand whipping cream to go on top of them. 

It was very possibly the happiest he’d been in ages. He had to do this carefully. 

Bull looked at home in Dorian’s kitchen, small as it was. He made a pile of perfect crepes-- after one experimental failure-- and his taste in coffee was no more distressing than Varric’s. Dorian was rapidly running out of reasons not to say something.

He took a deep breath. “Bull, there’s something I need to talk to you about. I want you to take it seriously, but I don’t want you to feel pressured to respond or anything like that.” 

Bull put the mixing bowl down, crossing the kitchen to take Dorian’s hand. “I’m here. What’s up?” 

“You don’t have to say anything just yet, if you’re not comfortable, I just wanted to ask--” Bull nodded encouragingly as Dorian gathered himself to continue. “--would you illustrate my children’s book?”

Bull’s smile lit the whole apartment. “Of course, Kadan. I’d be honored to.”


	21. Love in Translation

The first thing Bull did when he got home from work was pull out his acrylics. Most of them were cracked and dry, so he tossed them hurriedly in the trash and searched for his old oil paints. They were in just as bad a shape. 

His watercolors, of course, had not suffered from the same disuse, but they were cheap, part of a bulk set he’d ordered for the library, and not up to the task. Bull stopped himself from throwing them out as well. They weren’t the right tool for any final drafts, but he could warm up with them, and practice. 

He didn’t have to buy brand new expensive paints just for brainstorming.

He glanced at the folder of concepts and the page-by-page text Dorian had given to him with a shy, hopeful expression as he’d left that morning. 

He was going to anyways, of course.

But first he had an afternoon shift at the circulation desk to cover, because Alistair from YA had called in sick.

There was some construction happening on a nearby building, but the noise was mostly muffled once he got inside. The first interaction he had with a patron was still an apology that he couldn’t do anything about the noise or the hours they were working, but that was just how it went.

Three requests that patrons take their phone calls in the lobby and two phone calls about their hours during the annum later, a flash of brightly-colored movement near the local history section caught his eye.

It was low to the ground and bright blue. It was Gruntle.

Bull glanced around for Bastien, and then for Vivienne. He found them chatting over the low shelves near where Gruntle appeared to be stalking some sort of bug. They made a striking pair, of course. Both subtly overdressed for a public library, both very attractive, and both engaged in what looked like a very intense discussion over a book that Bastien was gesticulating with.

Eavesdropping on them was obviously very impolite.

Bull was going to do it anyway, of course.

“I just find the concept of poets in translation so fascinating,” Bastien was saying breathlessly. “Imagine! All those words, each meaning one precise thing, chosen for a reason, and someone capturing the shade and meaning of each one in a language entirely new. A work as old as time and yet it has never existed before.” 

“I quite agree,” Vivienne said, entirely matter-of-fact. “It takes a great deal of precision and a certain level of familiarity with both languages that cannot be learned in a classroom.”

“The question is, of course, if the translator has an agenda, or an inept editor, how deeply can the original intent be twisted? There is a remarkable difference between the Arainai translations of the Madrigalian tragedies and those of Valisti, for instance.”

Vivienne arched a single eyebrow in a way Bull interpreted as amused and engaged. “Madrigalian? What a passe example, Bastien. Those verses are overwrought in the original Antivan, and I haven’t read a translation that doesn’t smack of melodrama. The later Arainai translations are superior, naturally, but it’s all a bit moralizing for my tastes.”

“But that’s exactly it,” Bastien cut in. “The older the work, the more it shifts in common consciousness and the more generations of translators are influenced by their predecessors!”

Dorian, Bull knew, had excruciatingly high standards for translated works, even down to the most utilitarian instruction manuals. Bull had been surprised to learn that Dorian wrote nearly every translation of his own books in existence from the ground up. Which also explained why there were no Damien Palmer editions in Qunlat. Outside of a few dirty words Dorian had picked up in researching for _The Tide Flows_ , Bull knew he didn’t know any. 

Bull had called him Kadan, this morning, though, and he wouldn’t put it past Dorian to start googling any second. 

“If that’s the case,” Vivienne asked, “what do you make of the modern takes on the classics, like the Orlesian _Warrior’s Heart_ that was released last year?”

Bastien gave her a shrewd look. “I know a trap when I see one. You think I don’t know you had a hand in that?”

She laughed, then covered her mouth and looked around guiltily. Aside from one grouchy older dwarf who’d already been glaring at them for daring to even whisper, no one seemed to care. “Will you tell me what you thought, nonetheless?”

“Rapturous,” Bastien said. “Stupendous. A little flowery in the adverbs but an absolutely flawless take on a long-neglected classic.”

She flicked his upper arm reprovingly. “You flatter me. It was drivel, and I find your judgement to be quite clouded.” 

“Only by you, my dear,” Bastien said without a trace of embarrassment. “I do quite sincerely think you’re being too hard on yourself, however. It was adequate. Promising, even, for such a young translator.” 

Bull ducked behind a shelf as she glanced around again. When their conversation did not continue, he leaned cautiously back around it. Vivienne had leaned closer to Bastien, not too close for public decency, but definitely too close for politeness, and was whispering something in his ear, one hand on his shoulder. He smiled as she pulled back, and the look Vivienne gave him in return was not one that Bull had seen before.

At his feet, Gruntle gave a theatrical snuffle.

“Are they moving too fast, big guy?” Strangely, Bull found he wasn’t worried about moving too fast with Dorian. He wanted to move carefully, certainly, but he could feel Dorian’s affection for him like a second sun, and Bull knew he glowed in return. No matter how much time it took, they would figure it out. He reached down to scratch idly at Gruntle’s ear. It would at least be a good excuse for him lurking behind the shelves if he were caught. 

“Tonight, then,” said Bastien, just loud enough for Bull to hear. “I’ll brush up on my Antivan.”

Vivienne gave Bastien a smile, her real smile, the one that just barely quirked the corners of her mouth and made people think she was cold. Bastien’s answering grin was tremendous.


	22. Mule Kick

The faces Trey made trying to compute Bull’s presence in Dorian’s car when he picked them up after school were hilarious. Dorian knew they’d met at least one teacher in the park over summer break, so they didn’t think that _all_ adults lived at their jobs.

Still, they squinted suspiciously from the back seat for the whole drive to the rink for their ice skating lessons. “Is this an internship?” they finally asked.

Bull cracked up.

“No?” Dorian said.

“Don’t laugh at me,” they said crossly.

“You won’t have to worry about internships for another few years,” Dorian assured them. “They’re like jobs.”

“Good,” Trey declared. “Because I don’t want to be a librarian, I want to be an astronaut.”

“We’ll work on getting you an internship--”

“Intern- _ship_ ,” Bull interrupted.

“When you’re older,” Dorian finished, glaring at him. 

Trey nodded and looked out the window for a minute, kicking their feet against the back of Dorian’s seat, seemingly lost in thought. “Why are you here then, Mister Bill?”

“Um,” Bull glanced at Dorian. “I’m Dorian’s boyfriend now?”

“I knew _that_ ,” they scoffed. “I mean, why are you coming to my ice skating lessons?”

“To keep me company,” Dorian said. He looked at them in the rearview mirror, trying to understand why they were being so argumentative.

Their mood lasted all the way onto the ice, though their warmups seemed to take most of their focus. He noticed they looked over at the stands where he and Bull were sitting more than they did when he was alone.

“This isn’t normal for them,” he said under his breath to Bull, worried they might somehow hear him over the music.

“They didn’t tell you?” Bull whispered back. “They gave me the shovel talk during story hour last week. I think Kassanda encouraged them.”

“Oh no.” Dorian buried his face in his hands.

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t show you the amendment Varric stapled onto the contract that his legal guy drew up.”

“ _Oh no._ ” Dorian sank lower in the uncomfortable plastic seat. “At least Trey has the excuse of being _seven_.”

“We actually had a very mature talk about where you and I are in our lives and how I intend to move forwards with you in my life.”

“You and Varric?” Dorian asked.

“No, me and Trey. Varric just tried to get me to sign a bunch of stuff with thinly veiled references to ‘company loyalty’.”

Dorian sighed. “Of course. That’s really inappropriate behavior from Varric. He’s technically my employer. And yours too, if you signed it. I’ll talk to him.”

Bull put an arm around his shoulders and Dorian leaned into him, watching Trey attempt a spinning jump he didn’t know the name of. “It was mostly funny, but it’s not really normal boss behavior.”

“I’ll just threaten to make his next book about the survivor of a lost Thaig displaced in time or something. He hates time travel plots.”

Bull chuckled and kissed the top of Dorian’s head. “Diabolical, Kadan.”

“I like him,” Varric said. He scrolled slowly through the drafts Bull had sent them both the night before. 

“I only care if you like the images,” Dorian informed him primly. “My personal relationships aren’t your concern.”

“Relax, Sparkler,” Varric laughed. “I like his artwork just fine too. His style really fits the story you want to tell.”

Dorian zoomed in on a potential dog design. It was of course heavily influenced by Gruntle, but Bull’s paints made the eyes much bigger and more expressive. Had he given the pug eyebrows? Was that it?

“I like the green dragon design more than the pink, for the most part.” Varric turned his head thoughtfully. “Or maybe if it was green _and_ pink?”

“It should be blue,” Dorian said absently. “The necromancer’s palette is sort of purplish, and the dragon should be blue.”

Varric shrugged. “Blue works. But maybe a blue one with the cool ass horns like the green one? With a few flecks of pink thrown in.” 

“Mmm.” Dorian made a note of that. “So you do like him?” 

“I thought you didn’t want my opinion on your new boyfriend, Sparkler.” 

“I don’t,” Dorian told him immediately. “But...you do have one?” 

“Yep.”

“And it’s...positive?” 

Varric manfully suppressed a laugh. “That, too. He seems like he’s good for you, Dorian. You’re more grounded than you used to be. Hell, you leave your apartment more. I’m not saying that’s all him, but it seems like he brings it out in you.”

Dorian let go of something that had been constricting his chest for longer than he realized. “So this pug. What do you think of the eyebrows?” 

“I want whipped cream,” Trey announced as they and Dorian entered their favorite coffee shop. 

“We can get whipped cream on top of your hot chocolate, darling.” 

“No,” Trey said, their brow furrowed. “ _just_ whipped cream.” 

“Alright,” Dorian said cautiously, indicating to the barista that the whipped cream should be coconut and not dairy behind Trey’s back. 

Trey received their cup of whipped cream and Dorian was relieved to see that they were at least not so upset that it prevented them from politely thanking the barista.   
Dorian glanced across the table at the furrowed ball of angst accompanying him and felt, for the first time but certainly not the last, at a loss. “Is there something you’d like to talk to me about, darling?” 

“No,” Trey said irritably, the effect somewhat ruined by the general cuteness of watching them use their finger as a whipped cream spoon. 

“Well,” Dorian said, “If you decide you want to talk to me, you should know that I love you, and I will always make time for you. No matter what else is happening.” 

Trey’s eyes flicked up to Dorian’s, then back to their whipped cream. “Even if you and Mister Bill get married and have ten babies and forget about me?”

Dorian moved around the table to kneel down to Trey’s eye level. “My dear, I moved to Ferelden for you. Not the weather, not Bull, not even your parents. You. Whatever happens with Bull and I, even if we do get married and have-- Maker, did you say ten babies? Never mind. Even if all of that does happen, I would never forget about you.” 

“Even if there was something really cool on the TV?” 

“Even then, my love.”


	23. Cultural Literacy

Bull had never taken a whole lot of naps before. In Antiva, he knew, the streets emptied partway through the afternoon as everyone took a siesta, the same way Orlesians had afternoon tea. There was no such custom in Ferelden or Tevinter, but Dorian practiced it nonetheless, and had coaxed Bull into joining him whenever they were together for a lazy day. 

Dorian’s apartment was perfect for it. The plants always made Bull feel like he was in a tropical forest, and he had some sort of magic over the windows that turned all the light to a warm, muted yellow, even if it was below freezing outside. And it was pretty often, as winter made one last sweep through the city before the annum.

The streets outside might be partially frozen and entirely draped in tinsel, but Dorian’s only real concession to the season was a tiny potted fir tree, upon which he had placed a wintry-looking top hat. It was enchanted to spin slowly and change colors. Bull had plans to bring it back in the summer, or at least as many times as Dorian would allow. 

He returned the hat to the tree as silently as he could, his secret mission complete. His sent the pictures of Dorian wearing the hat in his sleep to Felix and Kassanda. Very pleased with himself, he slid back onto Dorian’s bed. 

Dorian stirred slightly, his mustache smushing against Bull’s bare chest as he burrowed deeper into the soft brown heated blanket covering the bed. Bull stroked his hair, a moment of soft feeling overcoming him. 

He hadn’t been much for naps, and he hadn’t been much for watching _other_ people nap, before, but apparently he was that guy now. Whether thinking Dorian was adorable even with a little bit of drool on his pillow was a symptom of the feeling or the other way around, he was deep in it now.

Earlier that week, he’d wandered into one of those awful little tchotchke shops, and come out with a tiny glass pug in a bag. He wasn’t sure whether he would give it to Dorian when the book finally came out, or when they got the final contracts for publication, for midwinter, or just because. He only knew that he was now the sort of person who would walk into a store and buy an overpriced knickknack just because it reminded him of Dorian. 

The worst part was-- the pug wasn’t his first choice. He’d had to stop himself from buying a little wooden cherub sitting at a writing desk. He still wasn’t sure he’d made the right call.

His phone buzzed, and kept buzzing. He pulled it quickly off the nightstand to silence it. Kassanda seemed to be spelling out “Aw” with seventy Ws, one letter at a time.

Dorian rolled over and grumbled into Bull’s arm, tucking his nose into the crook of his elbow to shield himself from the light. 

“What’s that,” he muttered.

“Nothing important,” Bull assured him, quietly changing his phone wallpaper to hat picture number four. 

Dorian sat up just a little. “No phones,” he said imperiously. He tugged on Bull’s shoulder until he laid back down as well. “It’s nap time.” 

Bull obediently put his phone back on the table, tucking his chin over Dorian’s head. “Okay, Kadan.” 

Dorian twisted to kiss the side of Bull’s jaw, perhaps less asleep than Bull had thought. His hand fell on Bull’s thigh with intent.

“I thought this was naptime,” Bull said teasingly, already running his own fingers over the small of Dorian’s back.

“We’re in bed, Amatus. It counts.” Dorian kissed over Bull’s sternum, moving to his ribs.

“Hard to argue with logic like that, Kadan.” Bull agreed, and let Dorian’s lips travel further down. 

“I’m going to find out what that means when I’m done with you,” Dorian threatened.

Bull just smiled. “It means brat,” he said.

“No, I know what that sounds like.” He dragged his nails lightly along the inside of Bull’s thigh.

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to wait and find out.” Bull knew exactly what amatus meant. 

“I think you’ll tell me, before we’re through here.” 

“And you’ll believe me when I do?”

Dorian paused in his ministrations, just long enough to hold Bull’s eye with his own. “Yes. I rather think I’ll have to.”


	24. Sweet and Sour

Like his romantic history, Dorian’s list of collaborators was fairly short. In fact, he had been working with Varric much longer and more consistently than he had dated any of his boyfriends.

But he found he really _liked_ working on the book with Bull. They were both treading in unfamiliar waters, and it was reassuring to be doing that together. 

He liked cooking with Bull too, which he’d always enjoyed as something of a solitary meditation before. Bull was sliding into his daily routines, and more surprising than how he could never have anticipated that was how little he found himself minding. 

Of course he minded how much he was starting to sound like Felix, who had developed the unfortunate habit of spouting romantic nonsense about Kassanda very early on. Dorian felt deservedly superior that he and Bull had at least been official boyfriends for a week before he saw a pretty sunset, fully of pink clouds gilded with sunlight and an entirely picturesque flock of birds, and had the urge to text Bull a picture of it right away.

He hadn’t actually caved to the urge, of course. He’d taken a couple dozen photos, agonized for nearly an hour over which was the best one, and never actually sent any of them. The next day Bull texted him a picture of two ducks and the word “us,” though, so Dorian really wasn’t sure which one of them was worse.

He found himself in a similar dilemma in the produce aisle, only it was about a thousand times worse.

He stared at the citron in front of him. It was a perfectly normal citron, if wildly overpriced since it was an “exotic” fruit here in Ferelden. It was a fingered citron, which was inherently a little funny, but when Dorian went to pick it up, he found the fingers were tangled with the fruit next to it.

He stared at them. He didn’t need both. But he couldn’t just take one and leave the other bereft and alone in this harsh southern wilderness where no one would appreciate it.

They were _holding hands_.

Dorian bought both.

He stopped the cashier from separating them at the checkout, and put them carefully in his fruit bowl when he got home.

Bull didn’t come over every day. He came over _most_ days, but Dorian felt the need to maintain at least a veneer of not being hopelessly gone for the man. It was a losing battle.

Bull saw them as soon as he walked into the kitchen.

He picked up the two citrons. “Kadan,” he said, “are they holding hands?”

Dorian was very pleased with himself. “Yes.”

“Have you shown them to Trey yet?”

“Not yet,” Dorian admitted.

The grin Bull gave him was positively blinding. “I’m the first then?”

“Yes, you big oaf,” Dorian laughed. 

Bull held out his hand to Dorian. “Come here.”

Dorain obliged, and spent the next five minutes giggling helplessly as Bull arranged their clasped hands next to the citrons for the perfect picture.

“I’m captioning it “double date”,” Bull informed him as he flipped through filters and uploaded it… somewhere. Dorian didn’t have half as many social media accounts as Bull did. Bull had one just for posting pictures of the book he was reading next to fancy lattes. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with two of them,” he told Bull. “I’ve only ever had them as cocktail garnishes or in scones.”

“My Tama candies hers,” Bull said, typing busily on his phone. “I’ll ask her for the recipe.”

“Right now?” Dorian couldn’t account for the sudden wave of nerves that washed over him. 

“Yeah, why not?” Bull was already dialing, blithely oblivious to the nervous wreck behind him. 

“Well, I just didn’t know if you... If I was...er, what I mean to say is...” Dorian did not know what he meant to say. 

Bull smiled at him encouragingly, the phone up to his ear. “Hi Tama!” 

“Doessheknowaboutme?” Dorian hissed. 

Bull rolled his eye at Dorian. “Yeah, I’ve got Dorian here. He bought like three pounds of citron and I wondered if you could tell me how you candy it?”

Dorian decided to take himself over to the sink so he could wash dishes. There weren’t any.

“No, don’t send me any, just tell us how to make our own.” Bull paused, listening to a response too muffled for Dorian to make out. “Yeah, I can put him on.” Bull handed the phone to Dorian, who very nearly dropped it right into the empty sink.

“Hello, ma’am,” he croaked.

“Dorian,” The voice on the other end of the phone was authoritative and deep. It did not elaborate.

“That’s me,” Dorian tried nervously.

“You wish for my citron recipe?” She asked. It felt more like an interrogation. “Candied citron is one of my ashkaari’s favorite sweets. But only the way I make it. No mass produced vashedan.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.” Dorian held his voice as steady as any mere mortal could be expected to. 

“It is a family recipe, Dorian. I only give it to family.” 

“Oh, of--of course, ma’am, I understand.” 

Tama’s voice gave a patient sigh. “You do not. That is why I am telling you. Now get a pen. I dislike repetition. You must start by weighing twice as much sugar as you have citron...” 

Dorian did as Tama bid him.


End file.
